It's not about the sentence. It's about what happens through or within these particular sentences. A gushing, an outpouring. An expression to which the sentences are scaffolding. Merely. It's art, not theory. Just look at them!
No, no. That's ridiculous. The twenty sentences are not - just look at them - concerned only with recollection, only with speech. My speech. But it's true that the role they play - like coffee, like touch - is essential. How the day passes . . . well, without them, ungainly. A locked umbrella.
But what do they say, what do they show, about The Sentence. How can I say when these here - in this moment - seem wastrel, outsiders, plants. One prefers a fugitive language but why. The sentence as agent sent by what mystery to protect, defend, to bear away to . . . to where.
The moment a child emerges in the narrative is plot, your plot. The twenty sentences, including this one, are guides in a green world, its text, this one.
No comments:
Post a Comment