The best (perhaps the only ? ) thing to read when one is going the long way home, through a thunderstorm, to a funeral.
Because I guess, despite all they give to us, the true operation of Gifts is always, in the end, loss. They take the place of something missing, things done and not undone, said and unsaid, etc. They articulate memory. Enunciate want. Lend sound to the silent throes of grief.
Stories, fiction, words-- the elsewhere of prose-- are, at the end of things, our only and best weapon against lack. Aren’t they? Isn’t it?
notes:
wanted more Addonizio, Plath, Carver, Stevenson, and Auden
and fewer Carrolls, Hardys, Miltons.
Just the right amount of Wordsworth, Whitman, and Keats.
a (select) Gift:
From In Memoriam A.H.H. by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
VII
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasped no more--
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly through the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.