Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

September 06, 2006

Esoterica on the Novel

Home from a road trip up Portland way, and feeling a little chewed up and spat out by the gauntlet of American roads in the summertime, after a season of near constant movement. As a non-driver, though, I finally finished reading Gravity's Rainbow, which blew my mind. Its thought-throttling romp through paranoia reminded me why novels were my childhood salvation -- they kept me company in thinking the way I do.

While I could wonder about my sense of solidarity with this particular book, I find instead that I only hope, fiercely, to write with such abandon someday.

Speaking of childhood, yesterday was the first day of school. The city playgrounds burble within their thirty-foot fences with excitement and life. Such predictable fresh starts don't disturb children, they delight them. I admire that, but I also always search out the unhappy children, hiding on the edge of recess, by the shrubs or trash bins -- oh, god, another year of this, their mute little faces say -- and in that sense I wonder why anyone romances the brightness of childhood, when my own was just-so melancholy grey (and I am glad).

Bonus: readers who identify two literary references made in this post will receive invitations to a pending banana breakfast. Oh, boy!


Posted by delire at September 6, 2006 04:52 PM
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