Thursday, December 1, 2016

Prologue...

In the beginning, everything was alive.  The smallest objects were endowed with beating hearts, and even the clouds had names.  Scissors could walk, telephones and teapots were first cousins, eyes and eyeglasses were brothers.  The face of the clock was a human face, each pea in your bowl had a different personality, and the grill on the front of your parent’s car was a grinning mouth with many teeth. Pens were airships, coins were flying saucers, the branches of trees were arms.  Stones could think, and God was everywhere.

There was no problem believing that the Man in the Moon was an actual man, you could see his face looking down at you from the night sky, and without question, it was the face of an man.  Little mater that this man had no body, it was still a man as far as you were concerned, and the possibility that there might be a contradiction in all of this never entered your thoughts.  At the same time, it seemed perfectly credible that a cow could jump over the moon, and that a dish could run away with a spoon.  Your earliest thoughts, revenants of how you lived inside yourself as a small boy; you can remember only some of it, isolated bits and pieces, brief flashes of recognition that surge up in you, unexpectedly at certain moments, brought on by th smell of something, or the touch of something, or the way the light falls on something in the here-and-now of adulthood.  At least you think you can remember, you believe you remember, but perhaps you’re not remembering at all, or remembering only a later remembrance of what you think you thought in that distant time, which is all but lost to you now.

---Paul Auster

Report from the Interior