2. THE TOES OF THE SUN
“…his need to prove he was not the the centre of attention. He did this with the most forceful expression of unobtrusiveness he could devise and the the effort of this emotional paradox occupied all his concentration. But slowly he relaxed enough to genuinely absorb the creativity which he sought out.”
I heard no serenades from my last balcony, and Don Entrerrosca’s transformation in this story, a transformation from an active troubadour of creativity to just a part of the audience, is a parallel parable to my own withdrawal from being a writer to that of gestalt real-time reviewer, to my new job of hawling the sun from others, dreamcatching their smiles. Or is that blind wishful thinking?
The tale here of sunset’s unset, a jeered encore, a grey cloak of nemonymity, all very telling, until the moment his ‘futile lute’ becomes a ‘giant lute’ that tickles a beautiful woman’s toes. And much more.
If I follow all the labyrinths of comparison here with my own case, it would send me mad. It is a parable to die for. A story gem, even in isolation from any such personal interpretations.
(And I note the third part is ‘The Promised Labyrinth’, as yet unread.)
“Hands and feet spasmed at random, as if a co-ordinated response was struggling vainly to emerge from a befuddled collective organism. Their fat little heads were identical, swaying in a cluster like polyps of an anemone, blinking stupidly in the sudden light. You would never guess they’d have the cunning to run if released.”
I would never have guessed I would reach this far and the whole world I am reading about transformed but not really transformed at all. Perhaps that’s because I am more in the know than the author himself. About the earth’s core and what I have hawled there. The gestalt of humanity. The disguise of humanity. Gelding is only half the story. And the above quote does not give any real clue as to the rest of it.
“They couldn’t siuwil,…”
But I can. Like Esswis.
The scene Isserley endures with the latest hitcher in this chapter, is just as frightening and loathsome, even more so, in fact, than the thoughts I have been having, the dreams, too, as a result of reading this book. I dare not impart much of it, and that’s not just because of the plot spoilers I always try to avoid when hawling or dreamcatching books. But this time, I am trying to avoid actual READER spoilers, a phenomenon that reviewers rarely encounter, if at all.
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