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Silence
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
I’m almost finished reading Fahrenheit 451, and while that little tidbit may seem wholly unrelated, bear with me. As many of you know, books are illegal in Bradbury’s story, but there’s a part when Guy reads a poem to his wife and her friends, and one of her friends starts sobbing without knowing why. They hadn’t felt anything real in so long, if ever - everything that was shoved down their throats was fake happiness they thought they needed. But hearing a poem caused her to cry uncontrollably, and Guy began to doubt that books should ever be brought back to light. That maybe happiness was better, even if it was shallow. Guy seems to be learning his own depths at this point, and his hesitation really struck me. I’ve always found the sorrowful or the tragic to be the most breathtaking. Like Poe, for example. There would never be a moment when I thought that sorrow should be hidden from the world. And I’m so glad that works like Poe’s exist. Could you imagine a world without authors like him? Or ANY authors, for that matter?
If I’m rambling, I apologize! Fahrenheit 451 is just so provoking and relevant - read it, if you haven’t yet! And PS, HBO is making a new flick of it to be released next month
Damn it, Anne Sexton, now look what you made me do. I should be resting, but I poemed all over myself instead. All your fault. (Thank you.)
I love this woman. Spending the afternoon with her. If I must choose between The Moiraie of American 20th century literature--Dorothy, Sylvia, and Anne--I cast my thread of fate with Anne, every time, though I love and need them all.
