Wonderful reading at the the close of a very hot “dog day,” listening from the porch the distant thunder of an approaching summer storm. A flow of prose that opened before me the evening after last night’s dream that featured the appearance of my long passed litter mates who possessed our lives here for sixteen years. What clowns, what children. What a surprising apparition.
Knowing how you love your dog and how I have loved mine resists really knowing what we love. It is the love alone and what attentiveness it inspires that counts in the end—and the questions: Did they love us? If so, did the shape of their love resemble ours in any way. Did they, my pups who never parted each other’s company, ever, love each other in the same symbolic way that we love?
It’s the kind of mystery of love that mirrors the love of a book. Who can define that? It is purely the object of the content that we want near, for no particular reason. The pleasure of the read, enough.
As for this reading on this evening, it was that pleasure in its voice that filled me with something like a little love, like I would read it again to feel good, a warmth, a familiarity.
Wonderful reading at the the close of a very hot “dog day,” listening from the porch the distant thunder of an approaching summer storm. A flow of prose that opened before me the evening after last night’s dream that featured the appearance of my long passed litter mates who possessed our lives here for sixteen years. What clowns, what children. What a surprising apparition.
Knowing how you love your dog and how I have loved mine resists really knowing what we love. It is the love alone and what attentiveness it inspires that counts in the end—and the questions: Did they love us? If so, did the shape of their love resemble ours in any way. Did they, my pups who never parted each other’s company, ever, love each other in the same symbolic way that we love?
It’s the kind of mystery of love that mirrors the love of a book. Who can define that? It is purely the object of the content that we want near, for no particular reason. The pleasure of the read, enough.
As for this reading on this evening, it was that pleasure in its voice that filled me with something like a little love, like I would read it again to feel good, a warmth, a familiarity.