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304 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2024
It’s a wintry day. The ice from last night’s frost has not yet melted in the birdbath. The blackbird has visited it several times, has looked at the ice then flown away.
He went in and closed the door behind him, and he stood in the hall in his own small silence, looking through the glass panels of the double doors into the sitting room on the left, the bronze lamp shedding its gentle light in the room, the portrait of Agatha gazing at him, her head turned, her features in quarter profile, beautiful and sad. And he thought again what a great painting it was, to have caught her likeness in that fleeting moment of her regretful departure. There was luck and there was genius in the achievement. His father had said, A portrait is always a disclosure of the artist’s self. Andy loved this other world of Lang’s. It stimulated in him a desire to write, to find the story latent within its confusion of facts and impressions. It was where he wished to be. To be familiar of the tragedy of failure and regret. To be its familiar, but not to be a part of it. To be the intimate voyeur of its hidden realities. The suffering of it. He wondered why the beauty and mystique of art and story must always carry the seeds of despair. As if beauty could not exist without reminding us of death. The dead, grey, desiccated blooms of the hydrangeas in the vase, waiting for Agatha’s return. The flowers of memory. The flowers of long ago. Was it possible to write such things with honesty and remain safe from the disaster of failure and despair oneself? How close could he get to that world without becoming its victim? Was the writer, like the artist, also doomed to failure in the reaching after something beyond their grasp? Or could the writer remain at a safe distance and be a commentator on the tragic struggles of others? A mere onlooker? Was that what the writer was? A person outside the dangerous seductions of the world of art?