ph: Sølve Sundsbø
Saturday, October 30, 2010
This cat book is an allegory, in which the writer's past life is presented to him in a cat charade. Not that the cats are puppets. Far from it. They are living, breathing creatures, and when any other being is contacted, it is sad: because you see the limitations, the pain and fear and the final death. That is what contact means. That is what I see when I touch a cat and find that tears are flowing down my face.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Joan didn't like to have her picture taken. She almost always kept out of group photos. Like Mother, she had an elusive, ethereal quality.
For the last four years of her life, Mother was in a nursing home called Chateins in St. Louis. "Sometimes she recognizes me. Sometimes she doesn't," my brother, Mort, reported. During those four years I never went to see her. I sent postcards from time to time. And six months before she died I sent a Mother's Day card. There was a horrible, mushy poem in it. I remember feeling "vaguely guilty."
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.