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Friday, September 30, 2005

pens and suns

The Book of Disquiet is an amazing, quietly wondrous book. the trouble is, i cannot go on a rapid-read mode on it else i might whimper and break from the heavy lightness of it all, like a sleeping girl under a ton of dream-whispering black feathers. so i am picking through it slowly like an album of a lost forgotten childhood, piecing every small chapter.
but it is ridiculous. it is like putting together a shredded flower. what i get in the end can never be as beautiful as what the writer, Pessoa, has. it is always as such. the storyteller can never be as wise as the hero. but in this case, Pessoa is both. and i am just an eager child. what could i possibly understand by whispering his tired, starry words to an empty room?

writers are amazing. they dance their pens about, and their words become constellations of suns and we readers have only to scramble for places and be thankful for some of the light that sheds across our lonely paths.
Posted by NHJ 9/30/2005 10:34:00 pm