Written on the Body

As a break from NaPoWriMo, I am now about half way through Written on the Body. It is delicious, although it is slightly unhinging me (if I were not already too far gone to start with).

It is barely a novel at all. Rather the plot and characters serve as hooks, or a framework, on which hangs a meditation. It is much, much closer to poetry than prose, and reminds me of why I so much liked The Passion (which I read forever ago).

The problem is that reading it simultaneously reminds me of what I want, and the fact that I am resigned to the fact it will never find me again. In that, it is a bit like watching a car crash. Of course, had things taken a somewhat different course, I would not even be aware of any such conflict. As Jeanette says, why is the measure of love loss?

As I reflect on the changes of the last twelve months, and the tumultuous backdrop against which they have played, I cannot help but wonder that if it is true that those who can’t do, teach, then maybe it is equally true that those who cannot love, write.


10 thoughts on “Written on the Body

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