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in a silent way
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i have piles of books i've been accumulating and meaning to read that have sat unattended for a long while. just now, for no real reason, i plucked cormac mccarthy's "suttree" from one pile, wiped away the dust, and parted its paper thighs. this is the very first paragraph of the first proper chapter:
"peering down into the water where the morning sun fashioned wheels of light, coronets fanwise in which lay trapped each twig, each grain of sediment, long flakes and blades of light in the dusty water sliding away like optic strobes where motes sifted and spun. a hand trails over the gunwale and he lies athwart the skiff, the toe of one sneaker plucking periodic dimples in the river with the boat’s slight cradling, drifting down beneath the bridge and slowly past the mudstained stanchions. under the high cool arches and dark keeps of the span's undercarriage where pigeons babble and the hollow flap of their wings echoes in stark applause. glancing up at these cathedraled vaultings with their fossil woodknots and pseudomorphic nailheads in gray concrete, drifting, the bridge's slant shadow leaning the width of the river with that headlong illusion postulate in old cupracers frozen on photoplates, their wheels elliptic with speed. these shadows form over the skiff, accommodate his prone figure and pass on."
i read that aloud and then whispered, "fuck me."
i think i will enjoy this book.
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130130
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