A Fireside Chat with Ronald Shipman #2 Interviewer. Your wisdom, Mr. Shipman, we hold in the highest regard. Speak to us now of suffering. Mr. Shipman. In order to understand suffering, one must first know about love. Ask me about that. Interviewer. Tell us about love, please. Mr. Shipman installs face in hands, sustaining the position for several tense seconds before allowing hands to precipitate from his wrinkled ruddy countenance thereupon unveiling a pair of deeply set orbs whence he squints out with great age and wisdom upon his awestruck interviewer. Mr. Shipman. Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar name behind the hands that wove the intolerable shirt of flame which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire, consumed by either fire or fire. Interviewer. Wow. Mr. Shipman. My quotation is that, and do not for one moment doubt it, though I must admit it does echo Eliot. Love.— Interviewer. Proceed—I apologize, please continue. Mr. Shipman, unperturbed. Love. Love is a boy and his kite. My own creation is this well-writ metaphor. Interviewer. Beautiful. Mr. Shipman. Love is real. Real is love. Love is feeling. Feeling love. Love is you. You and me. I would not deny that these lines are also mine, and question them none, though they do resemble Lennon. Interviewer. Yes, of course. Mr. Shipman. Whatever is well said by another was Seneca’s. Now it is mine. A few more words on love, how about it? Interviewer. I am in awe of you, sir. Please, go on. Mr. Shipman. I verily say unto you, the story of life is faster than the blink of an eye. The story of love is hello and goodbye, until we meet again. Hendrix? Nay, ‘tis I. Interviewer. Don’t stop. Mr. Shipman. Love. Love seeketh not itself to please nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease and builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair. I swear ‘tis I—not Blake—who birthed that there. Interviewer, at loss for words.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Jul 2013 16:24:18 +0000
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