Sketches – 87

Oy.
I finished "Adam Bede"

Wasn't it amazing?

It was, but... wow.
That story was sad on
Any number of levels.

I think the author 
Referred to it as 'realism'

I can see that.
It was beautiful, though.
I'm surprised that book
Isn't more famous than it is

I don't think most
Modern tastes care
For Eliot's writing style

Yeah, I know, she both
Shows AND tells.
But I find her interjection
Of her own voice to be
Surprisingly honest.
I mean,
Authors have opinions, and
We can almost always
Tell what they are.
Why not just say them?

That's a great point

So... what was it
About this book for you?

Okay.
I'm twenty-one years old,
Going into my last year
In college.
It's summer semester, so --

-- there were fewer people
On campus?

-- exactly.
The copy of the book I had
From our school library
Was an old bound book,
Much like the one you have.
I'd read it outside, everyday,
In the afternoons, after class.

You still remember
The setting, eh?

I do.
Any time a book
Totally transports you,
It's a memorable experience.
And I was fascinated
By how different
The world of the novel was,
Even though --

-- it was relatable.

Bingo.
And, at that age,
I could really relate to Seth.

Ohh.
Sweetheart --

I know, it's silly

No, it's...
You really saw yourself as
A loser, didn't you?

I was a loser.
Not at all like I am now.
At any rate,
I thought his was the life
I was destined to live.

But then I came along

Yeah, well.
That's my favorite part
Of every story.
So the book was beautiful,
The setting was memorable,
And I saw myself in it,
Albeit in small supporting role.

That book was very disturbing,
In parts.
I don't think our modern world
Is nearly as forgiving
As she or her characters were

We could stand to be more forgiving

People still believe in forgiveness,
But often, only when it involves 
They themselves being forgiven.

That is a very unsymmetrical
Arrangement

Which is why
It always fails

The Purple is Receding

The majesty is fast in fade,
The purple is receding;
The clouds that lately come have stayed,
The punctured truth is bleeding

The howitzer of human voice
Is all its shells now firing,
They stacked the odds against real choice
All wrapped up in admiring

The patron saint of ‘only seemed’,
Of phony staged largesse;
A life of noise and endless words
And secrets none confess

Upon the lies are stacked more lies,
The realm of toad and fawner;
And purple mountain’s majesty
Now dies for lack
Of honor