Whether the writing is short, long, or in between, I’m inspired each time a reader feels compelled to say something about his or her experience with A Listening Thing. And so, in thanking Jonathan Chant, who writes thoughtfully in his new blog of a “wise and generous novel,” I’m also thanking everyone — readers, writers, thinkers, dreamers — for I see at work here an ongoing cumulative process as steady and reassuring as the changing seasons. The book grows with each mind it passes through and each observation of it that is made, and I change right along with it. Without a doubt, I’m a richer, better person for having met and listened to so many talented, spirited souls.
I’ve been following Jonathan’s blog since he started it on the seventh day of October this year. I think it’s time you joined me. This quiet, modest voice from “across the pond” speaks from a wealth of memory and experience:
My Grandfather as a boy walking through a wood with his father, walking out to see what they’ve killed. England between the wars. The wood is near Dorchester and Thomas Hardy has not long been dead. What time of year is this? I don’t know, but I keep seeing leaves. A carpet of dead leaves. Black leaves. Leather boots churning the leaves. My Great-Grandfather – Granfer – wearing his weskit over his collar-less white shirt. Their eyes scanning the ground looking for traps. Traps that they had planted. Iron teeth to catch a rabbit. But instead, something else, lying in the leaves....
Thank you, Jonathan.