Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

December 12, 2006

notebook draft: fictional character, 25 years later

I didn't want him to have died, so I resurrected a fiction character in a writing group exercise.

Gregor did rise again. In hibernation, he had gradually forgotten his predicament, until at at some unpontificable moment (after all, you can't put a wristwatch on a beetle) all of the hard edges of dilemma had diffused out like spider silk at the coming up of the sun: bright lines, then gone. The enormity of being a beetle became him. However it was that he'd been lamely trapped in his room was nonsense then -- like a beetle, he'd crept out. Beetles need not move floorboards, floorboards move for beetles. The sun and shade did not bother him; he shuttled along their highways. The taste of things became their texture; the actual texture of things was largely lost. He wandered decades without knowing their roteness. The sky was his bedsheet, and the earth was a supine palace beneath his rocking shell.

Posted by Delire at December 12, 2006 07:19 PM
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