no its not true

no its not true, mr purvis. i find comfort and am convinced by my bible even though its an NIV, not the traditional king james version, even though it doesnt contain 'biblical rhyme and rhythm'- as you say. but that does not mean it does not soothe. it isnt all about the words, its about the Truth. and the truth doesn't need to be dressed up on a nice platter garnished with literary devices and smeared with a varnish, a sheen, of literary glamour- because that's phoney. and superficial. and disguises the truth. take it as what it is, and stop thinking like the world owes you fodder for your sucking absorbing literature needs. i respect you but there is limit to respecting capped-in understanding in a hard, shrivelled bitter core. ah.
but all this is but a reconstruction, like it is in margaret atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. a marvellous read, by the way. a reconstruction, for the words stuck in your throat, and articulated at the wrong time, often too late.

highlight the bits that stick

the literary whiz in my class wrote this, on The Return of The Native by Hardy:

"the problem with Eustacia is that
the love she seeks
comes only in a frail, human form,
and is therefore flawed."

mr purvis said a grade A for an essay incites envy in the examiner, for articulating and reproducing a quality of writing that he never could. we learned about metaphysical poems in lit S today, about Mussolini and Hitler in history, about boggling mathematical approximations, about Robert Frost, and other stuff i don't remember. of these vague recollections- how much is really worth remembering, if not for the sake of regurgitation during the exams? sometimes we fill our minds with too much clutter. well, in the present we call it 'information', we glance back into the past and call it 'clutter', and peer into the future at 'discovery'. but if we stop and reflect, and in that moment the past, present and future recoil and blend in a mixture of memory, experience and hope, then, we find all these terms rather tenuous, and pointless. but necessarily cyclical.

being really lofty and pseudo epic here. too much literature clogging up my brain, i told you. my life revolves around hockey. most of the time i'm happy. ah. tomorrow is saturday, yet another dissipated week. dissipated time- caught up in strands of torn web across your face, and you spend more time clearing yourself of past dirt than traversing the ground forward.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refin'd,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.

beautiful, chewy writing by Donne. Valediction: Forbidding Mourning.