Suppose that grey tree, so nude and desperate, began to waltz slowly in time to something we are deaf to in the thickening snow.
Would it be merely trying to get warm and true, as it seems one does while dancing, or would this be an invitation from the inanimate world our bones, trying not to ache with foreboding, seemed to warn us of in early childhood?
Then, unenlightened by desire and satisfied by very real dreams, we were able briefly, as from a window, to look bravely upon the baroque will of objects, not knowing, in out clever smile, who really felt the cold.
only the best.
“ Paul Valéry once said a work of imagination is never completed but is abandoned. In a sense we abandon whatever we create. Every poor sentence that remains, every failed thought, or imperfect image in abandonment. The writer parts with the work partly because he must prepare for the next work. He also knows that the work ends, if it ends at all, in the reader’s mind.”
Bernard Malamud (1981)