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11/25/2009 5:38:56 PM
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It's 6: 30 AM and I sit at a round, marble table in a little cafe, the pleasant Vivaldi in the background, and I open my book: 'There had been a wind during the night, and all the loneliness of the world had swept up out of the southwest.' The patter of words augments my pleasure. My mind loves to step, word by word, along a path cleared by the mind of another. I imagine diagramming the sentence, adjectives and prepositional phrases running down diagonals from the base line of subject, object, verb, a pleasant, straight flow from begiinning to end. My pleasure increases even more. Maybe it's the illusion of control — is
that
what we get from reading? Instead of the great, dark abyss of all possibility from which to draw my next thought — 'I'm getting fat. The heater is humming. I like that painting. Have to call mother. My wife'... a road's lies paved and waiting. The next sentence in the story introduces a boy. The boy hears the wind. I can see him. What magic is this? From somewhere I don't understand a picture forms, a story begins, and in that same, created realm it evolves, and now that boy, that wind, are part of me. Max Reif
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