Yet I have been reading 'Secret History' by Donna Tart and feel crushed and beaten into the following bad tempered gripe:
Writers just seem to write so many words. There is no self discipline. I have, as I said, been reading Donna Tart’s 'Secret History’ and have to say up to page 300ish I’ve quite enjoyed it for it's slightly sugary but undeniably mellifluous prose. But now after the ultimate plot development here I am still having my attention demanded for another 100 pages when I have already given these vacuous shallow characters my attention for 300 damned pages. There is a kind of sadism among certain writers and this is why I so admire Borges who holds up an entire philosophy in a nut kernel where others tear down forests with their legions of words. Their damned inexorable legions sucking out our energy like verbose vampires. Yes! Yes! Me as well with my relentless verbosity, damn your eyes!
One of my friends died last week-Brenda. She was a beautiful being and my own history with her seems to reflect the best of me. That is when I was around her I seemed to be more of the good bits-honour,strength of purpose, integrity, patience that I struggle to hold on to as I age. I wonder if in the bottle of wine metaphor I have been corked and am now slowly turning to vinegar awaiting my final assault on the nose of God. Woe! Woe! Woe is me!
Brenda was someone who made my life a little better, who seemed to make the world a little better furnished. Late thirties and a brain aneurism has taken her suddenly. Where? How? Even more ridiculously... Why?
Her daughter shines with an amazing light that must be somehow part of her, left here to grow and shine on. Perhaps this is the nose of God? I feel better about this-what shall we call it? Evolutionary Poetry? I'm thinking ultimately I might be sweeter than vinegar. I may not be corked after all. Thanks for that Bren. Miss you.