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.