Note No. 9

The language of the absolutely lonely man is lyrical.

– GEORG LUKÁCS, THE THEORY OF THE NOVEL

August 2020

Like clouds coagulating above a jagged horizon, the drooping of the air pressure felt in the tendons of the gut awaiting the drag inwards, so I sense the gathering of tempest. The air becomes, first, luminous, visible; then, a darkening, a thickening, a weightfulness.

What, erstwhile cohabitants of the proverbial trenches, is to become – has become – of our revolution? The distant woodland, promising shade, now effaced, lumbered down, the bleeding trunks genuflecting to the cold wind.

Does revolution, does love, like the flesh, all droop and die?