Hummed of mystery

Well, I've just finished The Road and had a good cry.
Halfway through it ceased to be as comforting as I'd found it, as the terrible stories of post-apocalyptic American increasingly flitted in and out of the novel.

Nonetheless, the journey ended with a sliver of hope and faith in life itself.

In the nights in their thousands to dream the dreams of a child's imaginings, worlds rich or fearful such as might offer themselves but never the one to be.

Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

Not all dying words are true and this blessing is no less real for being shorn of its ground.

Query: How does the never to be differ from what never was?

All the trees in the world are going to fall sooner or later. But not on us. How do you know? I just know.

No lists of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes.

The thin drum of rain on the metal roof and the slow darkness falling over everything.

The one above reminds me of “How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home” from As I Lay Dying.

Listen to me, he said, when your dreams are of some world that never was or some world that never will be, and you're happy again, then you'll have given up. Do you understand? And you can't give up, I won't let you.

What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

People were always getting ready for tomorrow. I didnt believe in that. Tomorrow wasnt getting ready for them. It didnt even know they were there.

He tried to think of something to say but he could not. He'd had this feeling before, beyond the numbness and the dull despair. The world shrinking down about a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds.Things to eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile thanhe would have thought. How much was gone already? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality. Drawing down like something trying to preserve heat. In time to wink out forever.

So be it. Evoke the forms. When you've nothing left make ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.

 

Cannot wait to move on to a more delightful book.