Monday, December 08, 2008

I want to say something important that isn't about love. Or maybe is but the love for words or music or an image, a minute, a scene, the light through my hot pink sheers in my study when I will write a whole novel, a play and complete my essays.

From The Season:
"And when he comes into view (he'll be a long time walking in winter, against snow like something from a Russian poem, he'll say 'There you are.' Then, 'I want to be your common-law natural disaster. Something perpetual, inevitable and so intimate it could peel you like a fruit or carry you into the next county.' Then he'll turn it all Bogart-like with a line that ends with Kid like 'read me, Kid?' and I'll know it's him."

"Who talks like that, A?"

"He does, or I'm pretty sure he should."

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