walk with me. hand in hand through the nightmare of narrative, the neat setences, secret-nailed over meaning. meaning mewed up like an anchorite, its vision in broken pieces behind the wall. and if we pull away the panelling, then what? without the surface, what hope of contact, of conversation? how will i come to read the rawness inside? the story of my day, the story of my life, the story of how we met, of what happened before we met. and every story i begin to tell talks across a story i cannot tell. and if i were not telling this story to you but to someone else, would it be the same story? …it is just as likely that as i invent what i want to say, you will invent what you want to hear. some story we must have. stray words crumpled on a paper. a weak signal into the outer space of each other. the probability of separate worlds meeting is very small. the lure of it is immense. we send starships. we fall in love. -Jeanette Winterson
Posted on: Sun, 23 Jun 2013 02:53:14 +0000
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