Tuesday, August 5, 2008


Reading Provinces of Night by William Gay. Engaging writing, if not overdone at times. Interesting use of the southern vernacular, as may still be employed in the backwoods of today.
Can’t make out whether he intended it like Sebald. The evocative flow is climaxing about mid-book, reminding me immediately of Sebald’s The Emigrants. Intentional with Gay or a stumbling upon his groove like Jack (The Town and the City) or evidence of the steady state of enlightenment as with some unknown, an overlooked Montaigne, perhaps?

“Don’t forget who you are, where you come from.”

The sentiment rose from the page to sting my nose from pages 171-180. There are things that have yet to be said, I added. They’re just getting harder to find.

And it is this search that often draws me from hearth and home. Away the pit stops have me questioning goal and attempt ad nauseum. The attempt to reconcile universes. How much easier to live completely in one and write off the others to tabloid storytelling. But the Truth has a way of tracking down your zip code, interrupt you placid dreams. What behemoth and lumbering desires call to you from across lonesome roads, heated traffics?

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