some words can conceivably change the world, they can comfort us and dry our tears. some words are bullets, others are notes of a violin. some can
some words can conceivably change the world, they can comfort us and dry our tears. some words are bullets, others are notes of a violin. some can melt the ice around one's heart, and it is even possible to send words out like rescue teams when the days are difficult and we are perhaps neither living nor dead. however, words are not enough and we become lost and die out on the heaths of life if we have nothing to hold but a dip pen.
jón kalman stefánsson's heaven and hell (himnaríkí og helvíti) undulates with grief and grace. surging, swelling with breathtaking turns of phrase and a solemn, grounded philosophy of life and death, the first book in the icelandic author's trilogy (followed by the sorrow of angels and the heart of man) teems with beauty and heartbreak. gritty yet tender, wise yet receptive, stefánsson's lively, spirited characters overflow with realism, shaded as they are by imperfection, longing, loss, and the myriad burdens of being.
the scenes set asea are so stunning and stefánsson's oceanic imagery so visceral, you can nearly taste the salt air and feel the briny spray splash your skin. heaven and hell is a vivid tale told with profundity and poeticism — and stefánsson is a writer possessed of staggering talent.
life also supersedes death in the way you have some idea of what you can control, death on the other hand is the great uncertainty, and there is little more antipathetic to human beings than uncertainty; it is the worst of all.
*translated from the icelandic by philip roughton (laxness, baldursdóttir, et al.)...more
a frightening possibility suddenly occurred to him: maybe sometimes things didn't just go wrong and then stop; maybe sometimes they just kept going
a frightening possibility suddenly occurred to him: maybe sometimes things didn't just go wrong and then stop; maybe sometimes they just kept going wronger and wronger until everything was totally fucked up.
as a pre-teen this scared me too much to finish. this time i didn't want it to end.
but i'm going, because all i've ever gotten and all i have now is somehow due to what we did then, and you pay for what you get in this world. maybe that's why god made us kids first and built us close to the ground, because he knows you got to fall down a lot and bleed a lot before you learn that one simple lesson. you pay for what you get, you own what you pay for . . . and sooner or later whatever you own comes back home to you.
he just wanted to read until he discovered where all the pain of the world came from.
a beautifully composed if doleful tale of interpersonal conne
he just wanted to read until he discovered where all the pain of the world came from.
a beautifully composed if doleful tale of interpersonal connection, oceanic wonder, and unceasing hubris, richard powers' playground is indeed a sort of overstory under the sea. though not quite attaining the heights of his pulitzer-winning work, his new novel is a marvel all the same. with compassion, with empathy, with awe, with a sort of quiet, patient wisdom, powers pens another story of seeing the world beyond our own homocentric myopia.
the largest part of the planet exhausted, before it was ever explored.
playground so powerfully entangles the fates of planet and persons. in our current moment of perilous instability and biospherical fragility, this novel sometimes reads less like a cautionary work and perhaps more like an elegy or lament. put it on the pile of books revered, but never assimilated.
without the ability to feel sad, a person could not be kind or thoughtful, because you wouldn't care or know how anybody else feels. without sadness, you would never learn anything from history. sadness is the key to loving what you love and to becoming better than you were. a person who never felt sad would be a monster.
it is now generally agreed that between 15,000 and 18,000 years ago around 40 to 90 tremendous deluges of almost inconceivable force and dimension
it is now generally agreed that between 15,000 and 18,000 years ago around 40 to 90 tremendous deluges of almost inconceivable force and dimension swept across large parts of the columbia river drainage. swollen by the floodwaters, the columbia grew to contain 10 times the flow of all the rivers in the world today and 60 times the flow of the amazon river. nearly 16,000 square miles were inundated to depths of hundreds of feet, the greatest documented floods known to have occurred in north america.
cataclysms on the columbia, written by john eliot allen, marjorie burns & scott burns, is a relentlessly fascinating account of the missoula floods — and geologist j harlen bretz, whose ideas proposing large-scale flooding to explain the eastern washington landscape were widely ridiculed by colleagues (until proven correct decades later). these ice age floods, almost unfathomable in scope, radically altered the geology of the pacific northwest. cataclysms offers a thorough history of the floods themselves and also detailed descriptions of their effects across localized areas spanning four states (montana, idaho, washington, oregon). with plenty of explanatory photographs, maps, and charts, the book is essential for understanding the region's geologic history.
appendix c, comparing the energies of different catastrophes is mind-boggling: the combined energy of the missoula floods (as measured in both tnt equivalence and ergs) is nearly twice as much as the asteroid that extinguished life 66 million years ago!...more
i take a breath. i'm part of this, part of them. i wipe the sweat from my brow and take a quick look around me for snakes. then i follow the trail
i take a breath. i'm part of this, part of them. i wipe the sweat from my brow and take a quick look around me for snakes. then i follow the trail down the slope, across time, through genocide and diaspora, and fear and death and now rebirth, to food, to companionship, and increasingly, to community.
chris la tray's becoming little shell is a moving, spirited memoir of self-discovery, governmental violence and betrayal, generational trauma, heritage reclaimed, and cultural (re)connection. la tray, métis storyteller and montana poet laureate, braids personal history and historical accounts into a compelling narrative of identity, legacy, and healing. as he sets out to discover his own indigenous roots, la tray's story broadens from one of self to one of community, leading to his eventual membership in the little shell tribe of chippewa indians and their fight for (long overdue) federal recognition. becoming little shell, like many such accounts, is a bittersweet reckoning with the injurious past, tempered by growth, acknowledgement, resilience, and restoration. la tray writes candidly, with a blunt and blackish humor, and becoming little shell is an emotive, expressive work of past and present.
i'm committed to uncovering the culture of my people. i'm committed to learning as much of the language as i can. i've always loved this land, and i've always loved indian people. the more i dig into it, the more i interact with my indian relatives, the more it blooms in my heart. the more it blooms in my spirit. focusing on this rhetoric over blood and race is a smokescreen to mask the slow roll of continued genocide.
"he snatched lightning from the sky and the scepter from tyrants."
the latest entry in the founding father canon, richard munson's ingenious focuse
"he snatched lightning from the sky and the scepter from tyrants."
the latest entry in the founding father canon, richard munson's ingenious focuses on benjamin franklin through the lens of science. munson offers an admiring look at franklin as scientist, experimenter, man of reason, philosopher, inventor, and science communicator. ingenious recounts the diplomat and statesman's life and times within its colonial context, providing a colorful portrait of franklin. as the book progresses, munson also details franklin's role in helping secure independence for a fledgling america. much to its credit, ingenious contends with "the multiplicities we often ignore in our nation's founders."
the ingenious franklin faced the world with wonderment and systematic study—offering rich perspectives on the enlightenment and the american experiment. his commitments to reason, experimentation, and tolerance also reveal his relevance to our modern era, when science, facts, and democracy face rising challenges.
i look into the night and have the following feeling: the vertigo of peril
after stepping down from the dais that fateful january day (some seven a
i look into the night and have the following feeling: the vertigo of peril
after stepping down from the dais that fateful january day (some seven and a half horrifyingly long years ago), george w bush was overheard by at least three people to have commented on trump's inauguration: "that was some weird shit." after concluding juan emar's ten (diez), i was reminded of his canny quip.
originally published some eighty-seven years ago (in 1937, two years after his funtastic debut novel, ayer (yesterday)), the pseudonymous chilean author's only story collection is an uneven descent into avant-garde experimentalism. divided into four parts: "four animals," "three women," "two places," and "one vice," emar's short fiction is at times most impressive and, at others, nearly indecipherable. a few characters appear and reappear in several stories (as does the author himself), but there is otherwise no link between the tales, save for emar's idiosyncratic imagination. despite ten's inconsistency, a few of the stories are quite extraordinary: "damned cat" and "the trained dog" stand out, but, most especially "the green bird," the book's first entry and by far its most dastardly entertaining.
"this dread was in turn a deeper and more distant echo. dread born not, like the former, of a sudden instant, but slowly incubated by the stupefying life of the sex within you. dread at the mystery of that sensitivity, that movement, which cannot be fully described as 'i'; which, fearful and disturbed, we call 'it.' terror that—dozing, almost latent—remains by our side in life, making us vaguely ponder a strange duality, at times accepted, at others denied. dread made pact. permanent dread. dread of what our destiny, thus coupled, must be."
*translated from the spanish by megan mcdowell (enríquez, schweblin, zambra, meruane, fonseca, et al.)
this is a long story, my friends, as you'll have worked out for yourselves. it predates me and you; it predates even my mama or yours. it's a story
this is a long story, my friends, as you'll have worked out for yourselves. it predates me and you; it predates even my mama or yours. it's a story born of a centuries-old tiredness and questions that presume too much. or have any of you ever been asked if you feel tenderly toward your supervisors? if you love your boss, your supervisor, the staff manager? i cleaned their house, dusted their furniture, made sure there was a hot plate of food waiting for them in the evenings. those things have nothing to do with love.
seven years a maid, estela garcía did exactly what her mother told her never to do: become attached. chilean author alia trabucco zerán returns (following her international booker-shortlisted debut, the remainder, and her non-fictional when women kill: four crimes retold) with a novel about class, estrangement, violence, exploitation and disregard, privilege, and the (perceived) insularity of wealth. clean (limpia) follows estela's employ within a santiago household, which began a week before young julia was born. "the girl dies" (on page two) and the whole of trabucco zerán's new novel finds estela in (what is presumed to be) a police interrogation room, recounting her time working for and living with julia's family, as well as her own personal backstory.
with its confessional style and anxiety-inducing narrative, clean's tension surges relentlessly, building suspense with each new detail. how did the girl die? is estela to blame? well-plotted and remarkably paced, clean brims with class frustration, domestic indifference, and familial secrecy. trabucco zerán's new novel brings immediately to mind the stunning works of marie ndiaye, with its sinister undercurrent and its resigned claustrophobia.
*translated from the spanish by sophie hughes (melchor, jufresa, hasbún, revueltas, et al.)...more
your goal will be to carry our hopes and dreams beyond the game; to find a way to turn us into repetition, to turn permanence into anguish, and fin
your goal will be to carry our hopes and dreams beyond the game; to find a way to turn us into repetition, to turn permanence into anguish, and finally to turn this anxiety of complementary time into infinite anodyne narration, this feeling that a victory for us will be as attainable as it is chimerical, that once and for all we'll be able to articulate a closing, a cut, a finale for all of this, the culmination of this string of words that'll never be entirely ours
chilean author (and musician) carlos labbé's writing is frequently heady, often abstract, and experimentally irresistible. his latest (the fourth of his books to appear in translation), the murmuration (la parvá), is a tale set (largely) during the first half of chile's 1962 world cup semifinal match against brazil — but infused with hints of politics, class, and social commentary. interspersed between the (very!) detailed action on the pitch — often within the same sentence — are the happenings in one of the stadium's luxury boxes, wherein the team's director (following an enigmatic encounter [and subsequent dealmaking] on a train with a prominent sportscaster [and his very unique skill set]) mingles with her colleagues and contemporaries, amongst whom a nefarious plot is unfolding. while not much happens plot-wise in the murmuration, labbe's storytelling swarms and scatters, with a certain sursurration overtaking the reader, very much as a spell being cast (the sportscaster's magic transcending the page!). labbé remains an ever-interesting writer and the murmuration nestles nicely among his other works of experimental fiction.
*translated from the spanish by will vanderhyden (fresán, garcía lao, marsé, fogwill, et al.)
i'm pretty sure there's no god of recovering drug addicts, just as there are no other gods, but the act of repeating a gesture or a set of random w
i'm pretty sure there's no god of recovering drug addicts, just as there are no other gods, but the act of repeating a gesture or a set of random words, putting one's mind and body into that repetition, is sometimes enough in itself to reassemble the shards of the spirit and reestablish the most beautiful fiction we are capable of inventing: the fiction that, in spite of all, some order does exist. a perhaps precarious, provisional order. a map that is in constant transformation even as we live within the territory it outlines, and which remains stamped in our memory when we—finally—move to another place.
a set of ten autobiographical essays, planes flying over a monster marks the first non-fictional book-length work of mexican author daniel saldaña parís to appear in english translation — following his two previous novels: among strange victims (an anti-bildungsroman picaresque featuring a post-capitalistic, ineffectual, millennial bartleby) & ramifications (a less playful tale of maternal abandonment and its lifelong repercussions). set across a series of different cities (mexico city, montreal, madrid, havana, brooklyn, cuernavaca, etc.), saldaña parís's essays chart his coming-of-age, both as individual and as a writer. from drug addiction and recovery meetings and ducharme expeditions and long walks across montreal island to sexual awakenings, parties, and the most vile piñata imaginable in the mexican capital city to a temporary and fulfilling foray into diversionary falconry in hidalgo to a brooklyn-based viewing of a video which captured a childhood spent, in part, within the confines of a cult.
everywhere throughout planes flying over a monster, saldaña parís may be found excavating memory and moments past, many dark and deleterious, all formative and obviously unforgettable. when saldaña parís is on his game, his writing absolutely soars, but a few of the collection's entries (perhaps most notably some of the shorter ones) seem to be more thinly constructed. planes flying over a monster's opening and closing pieces, "a winter underground" and "assistants of the sun" are the book's best. saldaña parís is a gifted novelist and his essays demonstrate his stylistic versatility, as well as a reflective candor and unabashed striving to inhabit as much of himself (on and off the page) as one might manage to muster.
from the beginning of my adult life, and even earlier, that space of values and equilibriums where everything is a sign or a warning has been romantic love, the partner in life. i have no need of a fixed direction or a mission clear enough to be articulated in a single, memorable catchphrase. i have no need of a community walking in synchrony or a ritual dance around a fire. for me, meaning is what happens between two people who, curled up on the couch of a temporary dwelling, in an apartment where they won't spend longer than four days, are capable of creating a climate of intimacy, an improvised stability; are capable of sharing stories about the past and constructing, from the few, fragile elements life hands them, a present in which those stories fit and can breathe freely.
*translated from the spanish by christina macsweeney (luiselli, barrera, mendoza, herbert, navarro, et al.) and philip k. zimmerman...more
i often think that we’re all mere composites of our favorite people’s habits: the way we talk and gesture and laugh, how we comb our hair and walk.
i often think that we’re all mere composites of our favorite people’s habits: the way we talk and gesture and laugh, how we comb our hair and walk.
new jersey-born poet august kleinzahler’s writing is possessed of both character and spirit. cutty, one rock, a collection of a dozen, largely autobiographical essays, offers examples of this dexterity in spades. whether holding court about poetry, the mob, sex, san francisco, talented poets (and otherwise!), youthful indiscretions, childhood memories, friendship, bars and drinking, riding the bus, or whatever else, reading kleinzahler’s prose is like being in the company of that one friend who always manages to turn every story, however seemingly mundane at first, into a rapt tale you wouldn’t want to miss a single second of. with strong opinions, a sharp sense of humor, and the sort of sass and delectable insolence endemic to the garden state, kleinzahler’s essays are eminently gratifying.
the book’s final entry — “cutty, one rock,” about his older brother’s suicide in 1971 — is an altogether exceptional piece of writing. recounting with candor and veneration, kleinzahler conveys his brother’s brief, troubled, but also beautifully wild life in a way that is eloquent and elegiac....more
the twentieth(!) book in english translation from césar aira, this one contains two novella-length
poetry's last trace of elegance was melancholy.
the twentieth(!) book in english translation from césar aira, this one contains two novella-length works: festival (festival) and game of the worlds (el juego de los mundos). in the former, the argentine master offers a somewhat absurdist tale of a filmmaker attending a film fest in his honor... with his 90-something mother in tow. the latter is a futuristic story of a video game that destroys (actual) civilizations on other planets (wiping out all of its inhabitants). famous for his "flight forward" style of fiction writing, aira's books are all over the literary map in terms of themes, subjects, genres, and plots, yet each contains a very distinctive essence all his own. smart, reflective, and always playful (does one ever really know which direction an aira story might go, even midway through?), aira is a reliably entertaining writer and both festival and game of the worlds fit nicely within his impressively large — and ever-growing — body of work.
and the result has been that we've become a herd of fools, irredeemably full of ourselves.
*translated from the spanish by katherine silver (castellanos moya, pacheco, ribeyro, onetti, adán, giralt torrente, poniatowska, sada, bernal, et al.)...more
i knew not evil until the examiner crossed my path
guadalajara-born author eduardo sangarcía’s english debut, the trial of anna thalberg (anna thal
i knew not evil until the examiner crossed my path
guadalajara-born author eduardo sangarcía’s english debut, the trial of anna thalberg (anna thalberg), is the tale of the titular peasant, the accusations of witchcraft made against her, and the ensuing case to determine her guilt — and ultimate fate. set hundreds of years ago, the novel blends classic elements of the genre, but it is sangarcía’s prose style which stands out most of all, as the mexican short story writer and novelist’s chapter-long sentences add a richness to the foreseeable narrative (though the ending is unexpectedly solid!). the trial of anna thalberg is a satisfying work, sort of a monte cristo meets kafka meets the crucible. centuries come and go, corruption and persecution stay exactly the same.
what lies above is the same as what lies below: sound and fury reign even in the celestial spheres. there is no end to it, woman; that is why i sleep.
*translated from the spanish by elizabeth bryer (ferrada, sainz borgo, salazar jiménez, lun, de juan, et al.)
how is it i can continue to smolder like this? why am i not consumed?
the new collection from poet, author, and translator forrest gander (born him
how is it i can continue to smolder like this? why am i not consumed?
the new collection from poet, author, and translator forrest gander (born himself in the mojave desert), mojave ghost is reflective, tender, and stark. with keen observation of landscapes both exterior and interior, gander’s poems blaze trails into realms of desire, memory, longing, sorrow, time, aging, love, loss, nature, contemplation, and mortality. profundity enfolds, beauty abounds, and ache reverberates throughout mojave ghost. the desert looms above/below/around/within each of gander’s new poems, lending them a haunting quality — as if he'd unearthed an oasis of hard-won wisdom amidst all the aridity and grit and erosion.
i admit: all my gestures are addressed to you. you, the starting point, the rhapsodic precedent.
even now, these years later, i’m still turning my head, listening for your words. i know i imagine them into being, there being nothing else i can imagine.
in photographs taken of me before we met i see only the impending joy in my face.
audible sunlight, the western meadowlark’s opera. and each dawn, your sing-song greeting to the cat.
as if our happiness had its own desire, the desire to trill, to cling to us, to stay.
what are we willing to ignore, or let atrophy, for the right to indolence. what a monstrous thing, comfort.
yuri herrera’s writing never fails to t
what are we willing to ignore, or let atrophy, for the right to indolence. what a monstrous thing, comfort.
yuri herrera’s writing never fails to thrill. his sixth book in english translation, season of the swamp (la estación del pantano) is a novel of speculative history, focused on the eighteen months benito juárez spent in exile in new orleans in the mid-nineteenth century (before becoming president of mexico in 1858). vividly conveying the sights, sounds, and smells of the sweltering city (where herrera currently teaches), season of the swamp imagines juárez’s time there, of which next to nothing is known:
“apart from two or three vague anecdotes that appear in multiple biographies of juárez, no one knows what happened in new orleans. it is this interval, this gap, in which the following story, or history, takes place. all the information about the city, the markets that sold human beings, as well as those that sold food, the crimes committed daily and the fires set weekly, can be corroborated by historical documents. the true account of what happened, this one, cannot.”
as with the mexican author’s other books, season of the swamp brims with atmospherics and herrera’s always-impressive use of language. set against the backdrop of southern slavery and human trafficking, herrera’s novel portrays louisiana’s largest city as a sultry place where race, culture, and a certain seediness combine to vigorous effect. season of the swamp is peopled by a motley crew of shady characters (and the most deliriously amusing fever dream!), each of whom lends dramatic flair to the future liberal leader’s temporary stateside stay.
“look, madam, look, sir, i’m saying madam and sir because the time has come to acknowledge that no one is invulnerable just because they’ve got a noble title. madam, sir: you can believe whatever you like, the pope can believe whatever he likes. but this”—he points toward the kitchen—“this is not about beliefs. this is about the two of you being straight-up motherfuckers.” another slug from the bottle, and then he adds, “as is the pope.”
*translated from the spanish by lisa dillman (barba, halfon, quintana, mediano, del árbol, filloy, et al.)...more
breakbeats are evidence of how we were once broken, and i want nothing more than to bring about a healing.
questlove (née ?uestlove) — phily-born d
breakbeats are evidence of how we were once broken, and i want nothing more than to bring about a healing.
questlove (née ?uestlove) — phily-born drummer, dj, producer, filmmaker, author, publisher, polymath, curator, music encyclopedia, founding member of the legendary roots crew, and ambassadorial hip-hop figure — is not only an elder statesman of rap (do you want more?!!!??! turns 30 next year!), but also a sage, self-reflective chronicler of the art form's past and present. his latest outing, hip-hop is history, "celebrate[s] the hip-hop genre in all its diversity and vision, not to mention all its flummery and flaws."
quest's new book is a chronological account (in chapters covering five-year segments) of the most notable emcees, djs, producers, records, tracks, moments, innovations, beefs, and ongoing legacy of hip-hop's first half-century. published following the genre's 50th anniversary in 2023, hip-hop is history celebrates, elucidates, and excavates. it de-mythologizes, it honors, it reconsiders. it venerates and it scrutinizes. most of all, it finds questlove offering a tour of hip-hop in a personal (and personable) style, with his own fervor, bias, perspective, and tastes amply displayed and argued.
hip-hop is history (written with ben greenman, as with quest's memoir, mo' meta blues [greenman is also the author of dig if you will the picture: funk, sex, god and genius in the music of prince, with foreword by questlove]) is for the casual and hardcore fan alike. whereas jeff chang's seminal can't stop, won't stop offers a comprehensive account set within its proper sociopolitical context, hip-hop is history traces the same massive arc, but does so in a more intimate, personal way. questlove holding court on nearly any subject is worth undivided attention, but when he serves as rap docent, there's not a better guide in all the game....more
we may wish to continue ignoring our downward spiral of self-destruction, in which case, the outcome is already determined. as we completely relinq
we may wish to continue ignoring our downward spiral of self-destruction, in which case, the outcome is already determined. as we completely relinquish our survival instinct, we will not only sacrifice an entire biosphere, but also, most extraordinarily for any species, our own kind.
in the secret life of the universe, french-american astrobiologist nathalie cabrol — director of the seti institute's carl sagan center — offers a thrilling, enlightening course on the current science of the search for life beyond earth. cabrol explores the latest theories on life's origins and the promising new discoveries that bring us collectively closer to finding it elsewhere. covering an expanse of subjects likely familiar to readers of general science, cabrol communicates with clarity and obvious passion. importantly, cabrol places the search for life beyond earth within the context of humanity's present and increasingly perilous moment on earth, urgently entreating us to correct course, re-engage with our planetary roots, and take better care of "our vessel in space."...more
the world is a prism, not a window. wherever we look, we find new refractions.
zoë schlanger's the light eaters is a relentlessly fascinating, ofte
the world is a prism, not a window. wherever we look, we find new refractions.
zoë schlanger's the light eaters is a relentlessly fascinating, often compelling probe into the very latest plant science. with contagious enthusiasm and open-minded curiosity, the atlantic staff writer reports on myriad botanical discoveries (many of which should fundamentally alter our consideration of and approach to plant life of all kinds). schlanger situates recent research against the larger background of ongoing scientific skepticism, anthropocentrism, and the linguistic limitations inherent in discussing other species. parts of the light eaters are absolutely riveting and the well-researched evidence schlanger presents for plant intelligence (and even plant consciousness) is quite impressive.
but what happens then? underlying all this is the deeper question, the one that matters most: what will we do with this new understanding? there are two directions to go in: we do nothing at all, and carry on as before, or we change our relationship with plants. at what point do plants enter the gates of our regard? when are they allowed in to the realm of our ethical consideration? is it when they have language? when they have family structures? when they make allies and enemies, have preferences, plan ahead? when we find they can remember? they seem, indeed, to have all these characteristics. it's now our choice whether we let that reality in. to let plants in.
and i have often noticed that even a few minutes of this self-forgetfulness is tremendously invigorating. i wonder if we do not waste most of our e
and i have often noticed that even a few minutes of this self-forgetfulness is tremendously invigorating. i wonder if we do not waste most of our energy just by spending every waking minute saying hello to ourselves.
a restless, yearning feat of observational prowess, annie dillard's pilgrim at tinker creek (a half-century young this year) is as magnificently thought-provoking as it is beautifully composed. with its "excited eloquence" and "metaphysical boldness," dillard's book — began when she was twenty-seven — swarms with intense curiosity and reverent care for the natural world. pilgrim at tinker creek treads softly but gazes intently, spilling from its pages enough wonder, awe, joy, self-reflection, humility, grace, gratitude, and piety to rouse or reawaken even the laziest and most lackluster.
a kind of northing is what i wish to accomplish, a single-minded trek towards that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky's stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles. i seek a reduction, a shedding, a sloughing off.
rare to encounter a writer with such depth of feeling and thinking, let alone one possessed of so enchanting a style. perhaps most notable of all is dillard's patience, which she amply displays over and over again: espying creaturely habits in motionless enthrall, in search of truths arduously uncovered, or in reflective ecstasy of moments singular and sweeping. pilgrim at tinker creek is marvelous and, as with the very best of books, bestows upon its reader a sense of things far grander, far more exquisite than the mundanity of daily life otherwise reveals (or encourages).
the death of the self of which the great writers speak is no violent act. it is merely the joining of the great rock heart of the earth in its roll. it is merely the slow cessation of the will's sprints and the intellect's chatter: it is waiting like a hollow bell with stilled tongue. fuge, tace, quiesce. the waiting itself is the thing.
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