Wednesday, August 29, 2007

And this one would be a red wine, maybe.

Started reading The Farming of Bones today on the commute home.

This is what I love about Edwidge Danticat-

Reading her is like drinking something slowly. Something deep and bold. Something beautiful but dark (not dark in the vampire way, but in the incredibly full and endless way). Something maroon.

Hell, her writing might be red wine.

There's something rich and wonderful about it, words that capture me in a way no one else's does. When I read her, I am immersed. When I read her, I feel like I am sinking into the thickness that her words surround me with. It's a pleasant thing - aching but wonderful.

She writes lyrically, ends her chapters perfectly. Here is the end of chapter 1:

When I was a child, I used to spend hours playing with my shadow, something that my father warned could give me nightmares, nightmares like seeing voices twirl in a hurricane of rainbow colors and hearing the odd shapes of things rise up and speak to define themselves. Playing with my shadow made me, an only child, feel less alone. Whenever I had playmates, they were never quite real or present for me. I considered them only replacements for my shadow. There were many shadows, too, in the life I had beyond childhood. At times Sebastien Onius guarded me from the shadows. At other times he was one of them.
--[pg. 4, The Farming of Bones]
Teach me to write like that, and I would die happy.

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