Sunday, November 9, 2008

If I Could Write

Crumbs from the sabbath table . . . .

If I could write, I'd be writing lines like this:

Michael Chabon, The Yiddish Policemen’s Union (NY: Harper, 2007):

It never takes longer than a few minutes, whenever they get together, for everyone to revert to the state of nature, like a party marooned by a shipwreck. That’s what a family is. Also the storm at sea, the ship and the unknown shore. And the hats and the whiskey stills that you make out of bamboo and coconuts. And the fire that you light to keep away the beasts (p. 309).

Or this:

Annie Proulx, Fine Just the Way It Is (NY: Scribner, 2008):

Debra Gale had read no more than ten books in her life but she knew she had as much right as anyone to give her opinion (“Tits-Up in a Ditch,” p. 184).

Or this:

John Mortimer, Paradise Postponed (NY: Viking, 1985):

"I was never all that concerned about the new Jerusalem." Dorothy attacked another sock. "I suppose I’ve always had far too much to do in the garden" (p. 314).

Instead, I'm plugging away at yet another installment on that tired old theme of the week, how to make sense of the debate that surfaces and then ducks back under the water, re: the strained relationship between the gay community and people of color in the new America of Barack Obama.

About which more tomorrow, Deus volens. Meanwhile, enjoy your Sunday afternoons.