Sunday, November 7, 2010

Fall back


This morning, reading Proust before dawn, I suddenly saw myself as the child I was, just home from the library with even more books, one open in my lap, my head bowed to the sound of the clock and the rattle in the kitchen of my mother’s pans — and at that moment there arose, from the page itself or from somewhere else, the scent of smoke, familiar yet impossible to identify. Within myself or without, a sentence or paragraph down, fingers to text and palm, adrift to rest in this room, but not — no, never, alone.


Update:
In the Forum: trouble in Mudville.

8 comments:

Old 333 said...

Lovely moment, William. Thanks for it.
PG

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Peter.

nouvelles couleurs - vienna atelier said...

yes lovely moments, familiar to me

William Michaelian said...

Good to hear, Laura. I’m not surprised....

jasmin said...

lieber Wiliam, Jasmin deine Gedanken-meine Gedanken...

William Michaelian said...

Little mind-ships, running in the same current....

rahina q.h. said...

with such thoughts, how can the face grow old?

William Michaelian said...

And with such words, you are painting, even now.