Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Simone Weil 53

This bread really had the taste of bread. After the wisteria gardens and the baths came the best cold beer I've ever drunk. The bath-house sat beside a bridge over a narrow river somewhere in Japan. The image is all contingency. My former student's wife is dying in a narrow hospital room; she and he and their three children smile for the camera. I asked after his family at a conference; he leaned over my table under the dull lights, and told me. Another friend came by. I understood their common sadness. The other day I rode my bike south on Kahekili; the north-facing lane was clogged for miles up the coast: dramatic irony without the drama. But Weil writes that great drama contains no movement. Y. lies on her bed, smiling and breathing. Attend to the breath. Listen to it go out and in.

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