then again
November 23, 2011
it is the realization of so many lives that you’ve lived that makes you realize that you are old beyond your age.
the novels have always betrayed this sensibility.
they make you age countless years in a matter of hours. it was David, then Joe and Violet Trace, Archie Jones, J.War Moorehouse. The whole crew. people who lived in the same time and age, rushing forward to tell you their stories.
and you sat there, face ashen, starbucks coffee cup stacked against one another, digesting their lifetimes – the hopes and dreams; highlighting furiously, desperately hoping that you’ll find a spark of brilliance in this maelstrom of emotions and lifetimes.
and theses poor creatures, their fates so determined, that they are but shadows of real people; perhaps a half-remembered dream in Woolf’s bouts of clarity, a half encounter by Joyce along the streets of his fictional Dublin.
So come tell me a story of what’s true and what’s not – when reality comes collapsing upon one another infinitely, where the arbitrary labels come crashing down. different characters holding a little conference meeting in your mind; a mini United Nations if you will.
each arguing their cases, each assuring you that they exist, each desperate to take over your dreams tonight.
