There are some masterworks of literature I find myself moving through at such a slow pace that time seems to melt away for me in a way I can only ever experience otherwise when I am ~creating~ -- whether the medium be poetry or paint or fiction. Dostoyevsky's NftU is that rare sort of fiction that, were it a dessert -- say a rich chocolate/pudding/moist,warm cake sort of thing -- I could spend days, weeks, MONTHS on! It's like that perfect, peatty, warming, haunting single-malt scotch at the perfect moment ... on that perfect evening.
How many times have I read and re-read the transition between chapters five and six of the second part? I don't know -- and I really don't care; I flip back and forth like a kid watching a DVRd magic show. And this writing, I'm convinced, ~is~ magical. Well, at least it will be until I pull out the dissection tools of the ruthless critic and take this butterfly apart ... joint by joint.
1 comment:
Interesting???
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