LATE AUBADE

2015; Wiley; Volume: 103; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/tyr.2015.0031

ISSN

1467-9736

Autores

James Richardson,

Tópico(s)

Postcolonial and Cultural Literary Studies

Resumo

2 2 Y L A T E A U B A D E J A M E S R I C H A R D S O N after Hardy So what do you think, Life, it seemed pretty good to me, though quiet, I guess, and unspectacular. It’s been so long, I don’t know any more how these things go. I don’t know what it means that we’ve had this time together. I get that the co√ee, the sunlight on glassware, the Sunday paper and our studious lightness, not hearing the phone, are iconic of living regretless in the Now. A Cool that’s beyond me: I’m having some trouble acting suitably poised and ironic. It’s sensible to be calm, not to make too much of a little thing and just see what happens, as I think you are saying with your amused look, sipping and letting me monologue, and young as you are, Life, you would know: you have done it all. If I get up a little reluctantly, tapping my wallet, keys, tickets, I’m giving you time to say Stay, it’s a dream that you’re old – no one notices – years never happened – but I see you have already given me all that you can. Those clear eyes are ancient; you’ve done this with billions of others, but you are my first life, Life. I feel helplessly young. I’m a kid checking mail, a kid on his cell with his questions: are we in love, Life, are we exclusive, are we forever? ...

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