There is a book . . .

I have been reading in bursts and fits.  It has the smell of musty cellars, but it is new, recently purchased. Inside there are collages accompanying the stories.  Here is a passage:  "Between the last prints and the outstretched body is a clear, trodden band of snow. He fell on his back when his heart gave in--or perhaps he lost his footing and fell before his heart failed--and slipped further down the slope.  It might have appeared comical in the moment, this fall and slide, this slapstick  coming to an end. The footprints break off in mid-sentence: his fall carried him on to the silence of a blank page.  All that speaks now, eloquently beyond language, is the unfeeling body."

I love this so much.  Although the subject matter is dark, the curiousity, the wonder, the desire to understand that exact moment intrigues the writer and the reader.  Some would say, get on with it, who cares, the man died on a walk, in a snowy field, it's done.  A writer would not.

Slapstick coming to an end 

The footprints break off in mid-sentence

The silence of a blank page

Wonderful writing!  The book is entitled:  The Loss Library and Other Unfinished Stories by Ivan Vladislavic

With all remarkable things when handled too much or looked upon too often or too closely, it will lose its shine.  Let it speak "eloquently beyond language", at least for a little while.  

There is a book. . . 

I might someday write,

Have begun to write, 

Fear tremendously, regret often, loathe vehemently, love fiercely (on those few bright days), hope to complete before my own "slapstick coming to an end".