I read it very slowly. Because every time I read it, it was startling. And I wanted it to continue to be startling. I didn't want to ever take it for granted. I had to read it like it was - as it was written. So it could keep on being startling. It was always being startling to me. That was quite important. It was beautiful and startling. And startlingly beautiful.
Things would just come out of it. Poetry. Very meaningful. Nested there. Growing out of it like flowers break through concrete. Which defined and superseded it. Like fish jumping out of rivers. The sun glinting briefly off their skin. Eyes flashing. Mouths trying to breathe air. Incongruous and perfect. Reminding us. And making evident the space around us, between us, and within. A brilliance that shimmers briefly in banality, but registers most deeply thereby. Like something unexpectedly you see caught up in the wind. It blows away before you can get ahold of it. You’re left grasping for it, only catching hold of empty traces of it, which remain full of imminent meaning. Until it turns into something else.
There is a story there. I would be inclined in one way to say that it is told impressionistically. I would be inclined in another way to say that it is told like cubism does portraits. I would be inclined in another way to say that it's just like any story told: the sense of it is aggregate. The characters and things that happen and the feelings everybody has, and the perceptions, all become evident in complex contradictory ways over time. Repetition. Like relationships. Thinking, or knowing, that it is something whole, even though each part rests easy on its own.
There is a story there. But more than a story, there is writing there. There are sentences and paragraphs the like of which i've only read in few, very few, writers. It does stand out. This is literature as an art form.
One of the very few books I will return to, to continue to read and be inspired by.
INTENTION IMPLICATION WIND
INTENTION IMPLICATION WIND
