As for me, I don't dream, I am dream, and I can't look down and get a clear look at the process that brings me about from moment to moment. That's deKlend over there. I am here, and...he's there.Feel free to guess the author, if you wish.
Imagine approaching a park bench, up on your right. You crouch down not far from one end of the bench. deKlend appears on the bench, one leg casually thrown over the other. It's raining. His right hand rests on his right thigh, and holds upright his capacitous umbrella. The left elbow is cocked onto the back of the bench and a long, elegant left hand hangs in space. The head and shoulders are nearly lost in the crosshatched shadow beneath the umbrella. The rain falls straight to the ground, and the umbrella makes a column of rainless air. He sits with his head tilted back a little, wearing an expression of self-satisfaction, although he might simply be enjoying himself.
deKlend is the type certain positions give rise to, or he likes to think he is, imagining he came into being like the figure between the shapes of a mobile. An optical illusion, like the vase with two faces confronting each other, one day happens to twist in the breeze and there he is, with feline self-complaisance licking his hand and smoothing down his eyebrows and moustache. No embarrassing memories. No shameful home.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
I'll leave the author out of it for now, but this is a just-released novel: