History Isn't What Happened, History Is Just

Irony - The Modern Mode: Either The Devil’s Mark Or The Snorkel Of Sanity.

I Was Initially Planning To Write About Grief In Terms Of Eurydice And The Myth Thereof. By That Point The Overall Metaphor Of Height And Depth And Flat And Falling And Rising Was Coming Into Being In My Mind.

Well, They Each Seem To Do One Thing Well Enough, But Fail To Realize That Literature Depends On Doing Several Things Well At The Same Time.

When We Fall In Love, We Hope - Both Egotistically And Altruistically - That We Shall Be Finally, Truly Seen: Judged And Approved. Of Course, Love Does Not Always Bring Approval: Being Seen May Just As Well Lead To A Thumbs-down And A Season In Hell.

(on Grief) And You Do Come Out Of It, That’s True. After A Year, After Five. But You Don’t Come Out Of It Like A Train Coming Out Of A Tunnel, Bursting Through The Downs Into Sunshine And That Swift, Rattling Descent To The Channel; You Come Out Of It As A Gull Comes Out Of An Oil-slick. You Are Tarred And Feathered For Life.