Butchering a lovely play
'The number belonged to my wife, and she died', he said in a peculiar drawling wail. Pain and wonder, ‘I dunno why I said that’, he remarked.
(Marriage means so much. I resent those who throw it away. There, I said it. Or maybe our lives these days make it easy to throw it away.)
In the end, when he smoked a cigarette by the banks of the Kaveri, into which he didn’t dump her trunkful of mathematics, they switched off the lights and said a poem –
(Marriage means so much. I resent those who throw it away. There, I said it. Or maybe our lives these days make it easy to throw it away.)
In the end, when he smoked a cigarette by the banks of the Kaveri, into which he didn’t dump her trunkful of mathematics, they switched off the lights and said a poem –
In this place where they will bury us, after the lifetimes we will spend apart, my metacarpals will nudge your pelvis; your breast will be thrust through my ribcage, and we will turn slowly into phosphate dust. With you, it is enough to be phosphate dust together somewhere.
These are my fleeting impressions from ‘a disappearing number’, the most moving thing I’ve seen in a while. Still weepy and giggly 5 days after emerging from it.
Comments
Shall take it along to the next relevant 2nd foundation reading.
Cheerio
Lord R
./w