Dear Eugene, Nobel surprised yet again, this time with a "safe" choice , not obscure enough, not political either. Come on, Nobel, get weird again! (For the record I like Ishiguro...but don't you think our Atwood has done something similar and did it more and better? Just my humble opinion of course, and really no point to compare apple and orange; all great writers are strange fruit in their own rights.) I wonder if we should all be our own Nobel committee, take a step back and consider the stories that we are being told and keep telling ourselves, keep living into them as if for real? But they are real, aren't they? We are living them; how can they be anything but real? Like, the invisible hand of the market, the endless prospect of ceaseless progress, the contradictory but equally real fatalism tried proven and true if by nothing else but the simple act of human dying tragically comically without-a-soundedly every hour every minute every second--aren...
ReplyDeleteA leaf unfurls, a page unscrolls
Green sheath of promise
In diaries foretold
Vein on branched sinew
Strikes a day, taunts the night
Lean is Spring without dew
Hands from throne to clay
Know no strangers or bounds
In holes they clasp to pray