Filed under: Moving Pictures
On the flight home I was so glad I reread the part in The Rings of Saturn that I’d “read” on Saturday night, a little drunk on a wine spritzer and the ponderous air of two people reading by two lamps across the room from one another, the soft rain outside, the music with words that made it impossible to read and possible only to feel or to imagine the thick significance of a moment that was already a memory from the future, while the eyes merely skimmed across the pages, a net tossed as a joke on the water, catching nothing, not those little, dark and darting fish and least of all their meanings.
With 40 minutes left of an endless trip I exhausted myself with Anne Hamburger’s dream of the bright limousine that drove itself and that “beetle rowing across the surface of the water, from one dark shore to the other,” and again could not keep reading, but wanted instead to float alongside the plane or touch some moss or make love. The book was stiff from having gotten wet some time ago; it was warped and inflexible, though I’ve been carrying it and reading it for months now, offending people with my confession that I don’t read.
