And never ever trade the romance of that for the reality of a trot to Ringsend these days - the breadth of it isn't near as fine as the fancies past.Robert2 wrote:...the kind of book I had always wanted to read and never dared to ask…
Faulkner - now there's a memory. Many years ago in Black Mountain North Carolina we were sitting around the studio of an artist who would paint nothing but huge canvases of tornadoes. Dramatic dizzying things of blood never less than 15-foot by height. Over the length of a couple of bottles of the South's worst brine we slung Faulkner quotes back and forth at each other in anticipation of a drunken Sturm and Drang, shouting the name of that American Proust at the vastness of the Milky Way above.
Not a lie, that. I'm a city boy (well, a boy of many cities), and had never seen the Milky Way before. It's one of the few things (like the doom of love at first sight) that actually causes physical pain just upon peering into the sheen. We walked outside to piss the lake full across the railings of the cabin, and looked... up. I wet myself. Books are like that too - for me it was the desperation of Camus' La Chute balanced with the fear of D. Trumbo's Johnny Got His Gun - and lord did the consciousness stream then.
A rare evening. And one I'd rather forget if it wasn't so damn piquant - for a city boy. God, I hate North Carolina. Never been back since.