In the hour of haunted terrain,
a sliver of myth-time ruptures
at the center of the labyrinth.
Moons blink from our faces
to flood the walls transparent.
By damp light of fallen stars
in nearby leaves, we run.
Midflight freeze-frame.
In the hour of haunted terrain,
a sliver of myth-time ruptures
at the center of the labyrinth.
Moons blink from our faces
to flood the walls transparent.
By damp light of fallen stars
in nearby leaves, we run.
Of literature, with Italo Calvino.
Here is a testament of value for the moment: why this and why now? Only that which can embody a bottomless array of embedded contradictions can work to shape these sensibilities. The writer insists: here is a teacher of proportions, and of the place of love, of death, of sadness, irony, humor. The value is the practice of attributing value.
Here is a map for the labyrinth of the hour––not fixed, but continually born, to name the nameless, illuminate the cave walls, construct a home solid and complex enough to hold the disorder of the world.
***
Inspired by Italo Calvino’s The Uses of Literature.