I’m heading out on vacation for a while – up to Door County, WI – so I won’t be posting again until later next week. I’m armed for two 10-hour drives with my first iPod, so I’m particularly psyched. It’s stuffed with most of my CDs, as well as the new Sufjan Stevens and recently downloaded interviews with William Gass, Seamus Heaney, James Wood, and Ian McEwan, whose terrific novel “Saturday” I just finished. I’ll leave you with a quote in honor of Oprah and her “Summer of Faulkner”:
And he overseeing it, riding peacefully about on his horse while he learned the language (that meager and fragile thread, Grandfather said, by which the little surface corners and edges of men‚Äôs secret and solitary lives may be joined for an instant now and then before sinking back into the darkness where the spirit cried for the first time and was not heard and will cry for the last time and will not be heard then either), not knowing that what he rode upon was a volcano, hearing the air tremble and throb at night with the drums and the chanting and not knowing that it was the heart of the earth itself he heard, who believed (Grandfather said) that earth was kind and gentle and that darkness was merely something you saw, or could not see in; overseeing what he oversaw and not knowing that he was overseeing it, making his daily expeditions from an armed citadel until the day itself came.