![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Feb. 18th, 2003 02:06 pmI should've known, legs crossed at the ankle, little containers of wasabi and ginger on the table before me, that I should've left off finishing this book until I was safely ensconced at home, reading in the comfy chair tucked into the corner of my office.
The lyricism of the book intrigued me, it did, and I could see why heyoka liked it and all, but it wasn't gripping me much. I even interrupted my reading of it for a Terry Pratchett book my friend Andy had send to me.
The wind is still brisk today, and the air is clammy wet like rain just passed over, and the weather in the book seems to mimic that a lot, which is why the words held me warm like a weathered strong hand, the words wrapping me up and tugging me along like the ghosts that inhabited the fiction. I finished the main portion of my lunch (california roll, salmon roll) and popped open edamame pods (cold, a bit too nutty) as I turned pages. Suddenly, like, oh, I don't know, a stream after a storm, sorrow plumed in the book, the pain of it like geysers of mud coming up from underwater, exploding in dark clouds and billows, dissipating in the gloom.
It was too rich, I swear. This book was so gentle, so unassuming, and so this sorrow hit like a slicing, an etching, rather more than impact.
I finished the book just now while sitting at the front desk, and I had to work out how quickly I could blink some stupid tears aside so that I could answer the phone properly. In a fit of frustrating stupidity, the phone rang no less than 5 or 6 times on the last page. That's always the way with this job. The timing is generally terrible.
Such sorrow, so gently doled out in aimless text about Scotland and nurses and ghosts and babies and inept husbands. That's not the whole book, though. There's the desk over by the window, there's flowers and promises and letters, too.
Eva Moves the Furniture - sorrow blooming, gentle fiction.
So strange, this feeling.
The lyricism of the book intrigued me, it did, and I could see why heyoka liked it and all, but it wasn't gripping me much. I even interrupted my reading of it for a Terry Pratchett book my friend Andy had send to me.
The wind is still brisk today, and the air is clammy wet like rain just passed over, and the weather in the book seems to mimic that a lot, which is why the words held me warm like a weathered strong hand, the words wrapping me up and tugging me along like the ghosts that inhabited the fiction. I finished the main portion of my lunch (california roll, salmon roll) and popped open edamame pods (cold, a bit too nutty) as I turned pages. Suddenly, like, oh, I don't know, a stream after a storm, sorrow plumed in the book, the pain of it like geysers of mud coming up from underwater, exploding in dark clouds and billows, dissipating in the gloom.
It was too rich, I swear. This book was so gentle, so unassuming, and so this sorrow hit like a slicing, an etching, rather more than impact.
I finished the book just now while sitting at the front desk, and I had to work out how quickly I could blink some stupid tears aside so that I could answer the phone properly. In a fit of frustrating stupidity, the phone rang no less than 5 or 6 times on the last page. That's always the way with this job. The timing is generally terrible.
Such sorrow, so gently doled out in aimless text about Scotland and nurses and ghosts and babies and inept husbands. That's not the whole book, though. There's the desk over by the window, there's flowers and promises and letters, too.
Eva Moves the Furniture - sorrow blooming, gentle fiction.
So strange, this feeling.
