Around here, no one asks why you associate with some books. They just look at you, if they look at all, like you are carrying a blowtorch: A quick nod. Ah, that’s interesting. You must be up to something. Carry on! This is ideal for me, because if anyone did ask, I might be compelled to reply with the sort of explanation that allowed someone to think that I was engaged in a bout of serious study, letting them imagine me to be a woman of great ideas. Instead, I am most often ogling the body of the sentence, its curves dancing across a page, watching it turn soft pirouettes, caring little to translate. I like the ones that move in slow glissades, in delicious sashays, suggesting by their winking flirts, that there is much to be understood beyond what they are saying, whose movements keep time with a roaring whisper not unlike the sound of the falls that have been known to draw the passing wanderer inexplicably close to the velocity of their aqueous gravity, seeming to whisper, Come closer, Come here.
