I am reading Avenue of Mysteries; John Irving again. Sometimes I think John Irving is done but he is not. His books are ever longer, ever denser, and my early allegiance with Irving based upon A Prayer for Owen Meany means I keep reading without knowing whether I am enjoying it or simply experiencing it, the way one experiences daily life. Brushing one's teeth and driving to work and boiling water for another cup of tea. When you look back you cannot remember if you did these things or not, although you surely must have. But there are brightly coloured moments I remember, the odd brightly coloured sentence. Like this one: Religion is somewhere between fear and sex. (This sentence popped up from the page and poked me in the eye.) I keep hold of them when I can remember to, if I can keep hold of them long enough to put them somewhere safe before they dissolve.
*
The world is watching Celine Dion grieve the loss of her husband and I find myself riveted by it because she is living my greatest fear. I remember thinking, decades ago, about the fact she would outlive her husband by far too many years because of their age difference, and being afraid for her. Though her music hurts my teeth, her heartbreak is now hurting my heart. I wish the news would not follow her so closely that I can see her chin trembling. Does it make her feel comforted imagining that the world mourns with her? Or does she feel as though her blood is being drained?
*
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment