Not me. I wish. No, not much gets me agitated these days. The roast, metaphorically speaking, is in the oven, the geese are circling rather than flying South, the freezer has a leg of lamb and a small rack of four ribs, and there’s gas in the car.
Oh, and my book is coming out. Right, mark your calendars: 2/6/13. Better yet, go to Amazon right now and buy 10 copies. The receipts will make great stocking stuffers.
Back from buying books?
Take your time. I’ll be here.
Even better or almost as good–how does one measure that?–as the book’s imminence is the revision or new start–that I know how to measure–of a book about the race wars of the 1930s. Folks, I’m up to page 20! The riots of 1938 are a few pages away, and can the incarcerations be more than a few weeks distance? So exciting! And when I take the already existing 200 pages and add the probable 50 to that and then the approximate 75 I have to write for the end to this book, why then we’re all set.
“All set?” What a facile description of the depiction of horror. But see? Words fail us, which is part of Beckett’s greatness: His embrace of silence, its authority, its power, its unspoken presence.
OK, so this isn’t a description of the pea soup and curried chicken sausages I made last night with Brussels sprouts and kale micro greens, but it is one of my favorite quotes on earth. (Martian quotes to follow.)
“What began as a personal grief was soon expanded to express the shared sorrow of the Russian people. As Anderson aptly puts it, Anna Akhmatova bears witness to the despair of every mother, wife, or friend. For example in ‘Instead of a Foreword,’ Akhmatova chronicles an exchange with another woman waiting for a prisoner’s release:
‘Can you describe this?’
And I said:
Then something like a smile slipped across what once had been her face.”