Thursday, March 26, 2009

Gettin literary

Sam lent me Tao Lin's book, Bed, and I found this passage particularly moving:

Though probably it was not even love that Sean dreamed of, but some sleight of love, some trick of crush or inwardly thwarted desire, like a chemical seed; or else some boldly fraudulent expectation--an expectation that leads a fantasy out into the real world, gets it an apartment, and, illegally, a job-- as Sean had probably never been in love. He'd once told a girlfriend that he loved her,but had then felt suddenly vanquished, as if in swift and arrow-y battle, on some nighttime field; as if the world, in that moment, had thought of him, and mastered him; memorized and set him aside, like a learned thing. The world was maybe finished with Sean. And yet-- he remained. Alive, doing things (eating, writing a novel, moving to Manhattan), as there was still, and always, the feeling--the suspicion-- that the world knew him, and loved him, that the world was trying hard to convey this, was forming itself a language, progressing gradually, thoughtwardly, and slowly, along. Which was, perhaps, the sensation of being alive--the reason why Sean existed, kept going-- the waiting of that, the faith in it, that there was a big thing of love out there, a mansion of it, and that the world, however incompetent, was trying every day to get Sean there, was thinking of where he should go, and how.


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