Sunday, February 11, 1996

February 11

The precarious distances of these intensities. Long pauses between them.

So many silly things. A comfortable bed, a library, a carriage, every luxury. A thousand little services, with every sign. The scraps of silk which fell. Such small anxieties wherever possible. Corrupted subjects described as evasions. Experience the formal subversion of the historical imagination. Circle of light on the ceiling. Language irradiated. The glare of the sky and the road. A liaison of suspicion and innocence, swung back, revealing nothing. Satisfied with the real as a point of order, a gesture of sympathy. Something akin to affection. A servile relationship existing in point of fact, one day of wood-carrying, one day of almost animal calm, one life as good as another there on the ground. Everything a thousand times better, already accomplished, certain, now a little higher in the sky, up to the hills next to the sky, rising like flowers blossoming out, continuous, mathematical, crossing and recrossing freely through the medium of commonplaces.

Past the front of the box, making signs to the soldier.

Unoccupied, observed. A kind of sad relief.

Utter indifference of the reader.

Such a waste of talent.