I have returned to reading the first volume of a trilogy by Javier Marías that I set aside last year because it was not the time.
In going through my notes on the book, I found that the same passage that resonated into the hollow of my bones recently had a similar impact over a year ago. (March 28, 2013, to be precise.)
It reads:
Telling is almost always done as a gift, even when the story contains and injects some poison, it is also a bond, a granting of trust, and rare is the trust or confidence that is not sooner or later betrayed, rare is the close bond that does not grow twisted or knotted and, in the end, become so tangled that a razor or knife is needed to cut it.
(pause)
I have been discovering and enjoying the art of
Otto Dix as of late. It has been beautiful, inspiring, and cruel and, thus, is exactly what is called for.
The painting, above, is The Dancer Anita
Berber (1925).
Be well; be loved.
--k.
(Title: A sentence from Neil Gaiman's short story,
October In the Chair )
