February 24, 2007
SUNSTROKE
"The boy sits up, interested. Is that what sort of food they have in Hell? He asks, Fried dough? Hm, I say, exhaling smoke, Good point. I suppose it's more likely they have no food at all in Hell. Or perhaps they eat vegetables down there; I have no idea. In any case, Hell might be spoiled but there are other possibilities, different ways to locate beauty. We continue to look or we die. My words ring out. An echo somewhere. We continue to try or we are dead. And don't be fooled by reinterpretation, I warn, You must steel yourself against falling for the reinterpreters of the world. A reinterpreter will betray you in an instant. He presents an image as fresh when in fact the image is stale and the language is fresh. Betrayal is the very worst of sins, don't you agree? I ask the boy, We must guard ourselves against betrayal. Against beauty. And against love. fine, Edmund's brother says. You understand? I ask. He nods. We stare at each other. I lift my chin and narrow my eyes. He nods again, more eagerly. Fine, I say. On to the zoo."
Heather McGowan, Duchess of Nothing.
Posted by Sasha at February 24, 2007 10:49 PM | TrackBack