|—||Elisabeth Rynell, from To Mervas (Archipelago Books, 2008)|
mardi 12 juillet 2016
But for the last few weeks, my thoughts have constantly been elsewhere. Like flocks of birds, they’ve lifted from the pages and flown away. And my thoughts have not been fluffy daydreams or memories of the boy. No, they’ve been busy telling a story, assembling, comparing, sorting, and memorizing. I have been forced to realize there is an order to this also, but a different kind of order than what I’m accustomed to. It has even struck me that there are similarities between the writing I’ve begun and an archaeological excavation. The carefulness. You have to be so incredibly careful with the things you find down there. They may for example be positioned in a specific order in relation to one another that mustn’t be changed. Or they may be fragile and crumble at the slightest touch. A sudden shift of the hand (or the brush, or the pen), and the entire story could literally dissolve into dust.