When the night is good
So good that the inexorable march toward decrepitude pauses freezes stops
Time hitting an invisible wall of rightness —
Well, then, we must sing and dance and laugh and love
Certain that if life can be this fine
It surely must go on forever, never stopping, always flying, refusing to
Come down.
If one could add the entirety of what we can see and what we can’t — the supplicant on a rant, matter dark, unknowable, persistent bitterness neat and stowable – what we would be forced to examine are children wrenched by famine, a panoply of catastrophes, like man-made war, man-made disease.
We might also deign to look at an ancient (antiquated?) holy book, imparting wisdom, dispensing lessons, doling out her meager blessings to those who care to…
Writer, poet, artist, improviser, lyricist, former television personality, and generally decent person.
Published in the current issue of Harper’s Magazine, the essay “Nothing But Gifts,” by Edwin Dobb, is one of the most beautiful pieces of writing we’ve lately had the pleasure of reading. Discursive and tangential in form, the essay nonetheless always returns to the author’s central inquiry: What does it mean to choose to love? The adoptive...
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