Still More of Anne Enright: THE GREEN ROAD

Self does not know how one can write like this. Where every sentence has such a pitch of intensity.

First there was Ireland and oh the sadness of a Sunday family dinner and people nattering on and seeming to erode to dust, right before our very eyes.

Then, we’re in New York in 1991 which was a terrible year, self can tell you right now, and right and left, people are dying of AIDS, and Enright writes a beautiful sentence about how a man can start reading the classics, later in life, and how he can become “tender of his eyesight and of his time,” and about Achilles’ dream and the dead Patroclus and about how in dreams there are no words and this is what the dreamer misses most because “words are also physical, don’t you think? The way they touch you.”

And self knows exactly what she means.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

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