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222 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2004
"If you recall, we were speaking of lurulu. At the risk of banality, I will point out that 'fate', 'destiny', and 'lurulu' are not synonymous. 'Fate' is dark and ponderous; 'destiny' is more like a beautiful sunset. In speaking of 'lurulu', however, language of this kind is not useful. Lurulu is personal; it is like hope, or a wistful longing, more real than a dream.""lurulu" was a pleasing way to envision a new year, after 2020. of course, after finishing this book, real world events soon occurred that were quite less than pleasing. and so my interest in reading fiction suddenly evaporated while an unhealthy obsession with watching the so-called news all day & all night came into being. happily, that wretched fever has passed and i am feeling a slow settling back into my preferred ways. i may now even be able to summon up the energy to reply to emails that have been for many weeks unanswered. and in time, may even start making plans!
Conversation touched upon many topics and often continued into the late hours. Persons of recent acquaintance were discussed, and their attributes analyzed; or the talk might wander to remote ports of call and the odd folk who dwelt in far places. Profundities sometimes entered the conversation, usually in response to Wingo’s predilection for abstruse philosophy.
Occasionally the word ‘lurulu’ was mentioned, and it developed that each of the four invested the word with a different significance. During such discussions Maloof had little to say, and Myron even less, but Schwatzendale enlivened the discourse with fanciful conjectures, which Wingo felt compelled to qualify or refute before resuming his own remarks. “If you recall, we were speaking of lurulu. At the risk of banality, I will point out that ‘fate’, ‘destiny’ and ‘lurulu’ are not synonymous. ‘Fate’ is dark and ponderous; ‘destiny’ is more like a beautiful sunset. In speaking of ‘lurulu’, however, language of this kind is not useful; lurulu is personal, it is like hope, or a wistful longing, more real than a dream.”
“Bah,” grumbled Schwatzendale. “Wingo has become a poet; he decorates the air with verbal finery in the same way that he frosts his pastry with fine icing.”
Wingo sighed. “My purposes are not ignoble; I believe the cosmos to be a thing of many complexities, most of which have no linkage with the words of our language, and can only be addressed through the use of allusion.”
“Bah!” said Schwatzendale again. “Balderdash, of the purest stripe! The language serves us very well; why turn it inside out to describe something which isn’t there in the first place?”