From centaurs, so much came. You know what I mean. You saw snow falling, started to think, and the first thing that you thought of was your own past. From there, it all unfurled. When I think about you, which I do often, I think mostly of plot. How much can be told of a life before it has a plot? If I say that a man woke, went to work, bought a gun, bought a mask, and put a bullet in the back of the Prime Minister, is that a plot? If I say that another man woke, went to work, came home, repeated the same process for decades, along the way loving, losing, losing those who were loved, working, procrastinating, attending parties, lusting after women and money and fame, but never in an untoward way, suffering, sometimes by his own hand, sometimes through the cruelty or indifference of others, and that this same man eventually grew old and frail, is that a plot, or a number of plots woven together inexpertly? So much of your life is clear to me that it is not at all clear that it is not just a life, something presented rather than composed. Composed: brings me back to music, and time.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Anthony Powell | A Dance To the Music of Time | 1951-1975