Before, Anne Carson’s work was dismissed as bewildering; now, Carson said, “I can’t do anything wrong, but which really means people are offering equally blind judgments of the work…. I guess people are just afraid to think.” A Nobel will only exacerbate this.
He abhorred writerly tricks and happily-ever-after endings. And he was deeply realistic. He knew there was no way to bring opposing beliefs and values into harmony. Hold back the chaos, in other words, and allow as much human flourishing as possible.
The common denominator in all smug characters is that they are closed. Closed to new ideas, to a more flexible way of thinking, to vulnerability and humility, to wonder and curiosity. They live in their own tight world, safe from challenge, always correct.
“There’s something calming about crosswords,” Mac Motz says, and I know exactly what he means. You are focused on that grid, and everything else falls away.
A “coign” is a jutting-out corner or high point that gives you an excellent view of whatever you are trying to see. I was trying to see…what? A different world, graceful and mysterious, exquisitely colored and lit.
The virus has latched on to receptors on the cells lining my respiratory tract, and it clings there, reproducing rapidly. I know this because my throat feels scorched, and though I continue bravely on with my day, it is punctuated by violent sneezes that explode without warning.
“Yeah, no” is managing the social interaction, not just the literal meaning. If somebody offers advice and you respond with a flat “No,” that sounds a bit ungrateful, even surly.
At twelve, I read that in Purgatory, souls were purified with a cleansing fire, removing small sins, whisking away tiny bits of filth, mending any cracks. My father had to be made ready to enter the presence of God.
Self-talk, the practice is called, and after decades of research, shrinks now admit it can be quite healthy. We learn to speak, after all, by jabbering away in our crib, speaking to no one in particular, catching the rhythm and intonation before we have the vocabulary.
We want to live in a world of our own choosing, want this so badly it hurts. So we take revenge on that secret desire by tagging our yearnings “nostalgia” or “romanticism.” But often we are taking our own wistfulness too literally.