My novel

It is a cold day to be sure, but the sun is shining through my window. It’s been awhile since that happened. A steaming coffee sits beside me. This passage from Calvino is on my mind.

Long novels written today are perhaps a contradiction: the dimension of time has been shattered, we cannot love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes off along its own trajectory and immediately disappears. We can discover the continuity of time only in the novels of that period when time no longer seemed stopped and did not yet seem to have exploded, a period that lasted no more than a hundred years.

The passage is underlined. I did not notice the underlining the first time I read it. She underlined it. That’s very good.

It must be common to think of life as a novel. We create our lives within the boundaries of the form. Take this day for instance. I am alone sipping my coffee. I have nobody to meet for lunch as I did yesterday. The day is mine. What passage shall I write?

The sun and the big warm smile of the woman who served me coffee at Starbuck’s are already written along with the underlined passage in Calvino. I can feel the caffeine taking hold, so that’s in it too.

The memory of V standing before me last night, her sweater and jeans hugging her body, that’s in it now too, since I’ve mentioned it. As beautiful as the memory is, I must write other things into my life today or go mad.

I’ve gone on long enough about this. I know I bore you, but I don’t want to use too much of your time.

Published in: on February 19, 2008 at 10:58 am  Leave a Comment  

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