Every story we tell about ourselves can only be told in the past tense. It winds backwards from where we now stand, no longer the actors in the story, but its spectators who have chosen to speak. The trail behind us is sometimes marked by stories like the ones Hansel first left behind him. Other times, the path is gone, because the birds flew down and ate up all the crumbs at sunrise. The story flies over the blanks, filling them in with the hypotaxis of an “and” or an “and then”. I’ve done it in these pages to stay on a path I know is interrupted by shallow pits and several deep holes. Writing is a way to trace my hunger, and hunger is nothing if not a void. - From What I Loved by Siri Hustvedt. Goodbye, 2011. Let’s not stand on ceremony. I’ll be up in my bedroom, reading Garp and maybe some Victorian erotica, sipping mah coffee, smoking the cigarettes I won’t be letting go anytime soon. Who knows anymore?
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Every story we tell about ourselves can only be told in the past tense. It winds backwards from where we now stand, no longer the actors in the story, but its spectators who have chosen to speak. The trail behind us is sometimes marked by stories like the ones Hansel first left behind him. Other times, the path is gone, because the birds flew down and ate up all the crumbs at sunrise. The story flies over the blanks, filling them in with the hypotaxis of an “and” or an “and then”. I’ve done it in these pages to stay on a path I know is interrupted by shallow pits and several deep holes. Writing is a way to trace my hunger, and hunger is nothing if not a void. - From What I Loved by Siri Hustvedt.

Goodbye, 2011. Let’s not stand on ceremony. I’ll be up in my bedroom, reading Garp and maybe some Victorian erotica, sipping mah coffee, smoking the cigarettes I won’t be letting go anytime soon. Who knows anymore?

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  1. sashawantsmore posted this