An Artist
"What does it mean "to write well"?
An artist--using the word in its genuine rather than childish meaning-is not a craftsman who knows how to evenly distribute "lively images", "telling details of everyday life", "colorful landscapes", and other trifles in his books; an artist is the one who finds a rhythm unknown before, and enlives and permeates the world he has created by this rhythm."
-Nabokov
She came from nowhere. Out of Nancy's vague existence of hopelessness and loss. She had an innocence rare and, yet, natural, like some kind of flower that only blooms in one place and, now, even there one must hunt for weeks to find one, its environment so dreadfully in despair. Her eyes sparkled like a child's eyes at Christmas morn when 'neath the tinseled tree a new-born doll would set waiting only for the child's delghtful and gay embrace and tender tears to make it whole. Not the doll or the child or the tree but the day for it was His Day, unique of all other days: the Day there would be "Joy To The World" because a child's joy was so innocently and truly given, her tears invoked the snow to fall, the sun to shine, the blind to see, the mute to call, "Behold. We are blessed amidst the wild wind, the tumult of the sea, the thunder of darkened reverie, the cold chill of black rain, the killing fields we shudder in pain." All this and, yet, there is beauty and there is innocence and there is truth and, even, there is love, love returned like a bird returns her song of bliss in the storm, for, even, then, the bird doth believe the leaves will live again. For you, Nettie, from a willow.
She came from nowhere. Out of Nancy's vague existence of hopelessness and loss. She had an innocence rare and, yet, natural, like some kind of flower that only blooms in one place and, now, even there one must hunt for weeks to find one, its environment so dreadfully in despair. Her eyes sparkled like a child's eyes at Christmas morn when 'neath the tinseled tree a new-born doll would set waiting only for the child's delghtful and gay embrace and tender tears to make it whole. Not the doll or the child or the tree but the day for it was His Day, unique of all other days: the Day there would be "Joy To The World" because a child's joy was so innocently and truly given, her tears invoked the snow to fall, the sun to shine, the blind to see, the mute to call, "Behold. We are blessed amidst the wild wind, the tumult of the sea, the thunder of darkened reverie, the cold chill of black rain, the killing fields we shudder in pain." All this and, yet, there is beauty and there is innocence and there is truth and, even, there is love, love returned like a bird returns her song of bliss in the storm, for, even, then, the bird doth believe the leaves will live again.
ReplyDeleteFor you, Nettie, from a willow.
delightful. So cute.
ReplyDeleteyou're so beautiful. That mouth kills me.
ReplyDelete