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November 22, 2007

One Call Out Of Two

Air conditioning one day, snow the next. An afternoon spent inside editing and watching films. I finally got around to buying a hat.

I've been reading Henry Miller's Tropic Of Cancer and came across a passage that out of the blue hit like the prosaic equivalent of the final sequence of The New World:

With the close of day, pain rising like a mist from the earth, sorrow closing in, shuttering the endless vista of sea and sky. Two waxen hands lying listlessly on the bedspread and along the pale veins the fluted murmur of a shell repeating the legend of its birth.

Thanks comes later.

Posted by David Lowery at November 22, 2007 5:22 PM