PJ
If england were to die, what of it? Neither the walls of Lahore, nor the deserts of Arabia; neither Greek nor Jew. There is no place for the way I feel. But I thought I saw you, raven of my heart, feeding off my dead thoughts, so that I wouldn't remember anything, except for you.
This stored pattern of connections that never included you, though your presence haunted them all, and was maybe even prefigured in the slip of tongue, the faltering voice. There's no betrayal like the human voice. The shadowy underside of the mirror, the darkening hour in the glass. If this was england, then let england break.
My heart, on the move again, to a place I know or once knew. You can tell it's going to move before it moves.What gives? It waited, it waited blackly, it waited all this time for her, not a second longer than her arrival, not even half a second, and then it broke the mysterious crystal of its inertia.
---quotes from Paula Fox, Richard Ford, and Denis Johnson.
(Apologies to those who left a comment on the previous post. For some odd reason they've disappeared. Quite fitting, I guess. Nothing lasts here.)
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3 comments:
ah it's ok, blogger was down such a long time, and my comments were only for you, if you read them, then they are already part of the darkening hour of the glass :-)
i missed your writing.
Thanks, Roxana..but I only read one comment. of course they were for me..who else would they be for? strange girl! :-)
those pictures of yours are stunning, btw.
the butterflies? :-) i didn't think the BS would like such crazy colours!
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