Thursday, June 14, 2012
The Sentimentalists by Johanna Skibsrud *DNF*
But, as I floated over Henry's old house, and did and did not listen to myself, it occurred to me that the reverse of the thing was also true. That instead of disappearing - or equally, as we disappeared - we also existed more heavily, in layers. And that by remaining, as in floodwater, always at the surface of everything, though our points of reference begin to slowly change, it is always so slight a transition, moment to moment, that it is almost imperceptible.
There's a story in here somewhere but I'm just not getting it.