The compulsion to express that intense, mysterious and existential experience of certain books in words is no different from, say, a painter's compulsion to capture a particularly-moving scene and express/interpret it on canvas. And, secondly, for these bibliomemoirists, the books they love are not an alternative to life. Rather, such books, by virtue of opening up the real world in new and different ways, are significant life events and milestones in themselves.
we went into a market—they call it a grocery—and you can’t imagine. fruit brilliant as magazine photos. all kinds of different oranges, grapefruits, mandarins, some tiny clementines with a blue sticker—Morocco—they’ve come so far...the eggs are painted with colors corresponding to the days of the week you’re supposed to eat them: a different color for each opportunity.
Let's consider. What happens when stories refuse to be given voice? When the weight of our present life is so oppressive that it mutes our narrative instinct? Or, when the fear of the future (impending or imagined disappointments and sadnesses) fills that space within us where, once, there was just the pleasure of connecting with each other through our stories? Today’s poem addresses some of these ideas.