Once the music began, however, the misery was erased from their faces and replaced by a hypnotic expression as they mechanically went through their paces. From my folding chair, swooning on phenobarbital, overly warm from all the body heat, I was in agony until I saw – with a rare and refined sense of objectivity – that their sufferings and miseries vanished in their dancing, as they fell into the rhythm of the music and the singsong of the caller’s instructions. And for a moment I saw myself as well; I saw myself from on high, saw the pattern of my whole life with a kind of geometrical precision, like the pattern the dancers were making, and it seemed there was a perfect rightness to it all.
Thom Jones, The puglist at rest, p 81
26. März 2006 00:34 Uhr. Kategorie Buch. Keine Antwort.
