Death, a subject or an entity, one cannot say. In many languages, including French, death has a gender, whereas it is an "it" in English. Which one makes more sense? I leave that to others.
A few weeks ago, I watched the television series 'Emily Dickinson' on Apple+, an amusing and touching retelling of the poet’s early literary years. I only knew her by name. According to my research, the series does not seem to deviate from the truth, even though it had to invent what was never known about the writer’s life.
I was recently asked how I perceived a year. It was a game told by a colleague who had entertained her family and friends. There were four or five of us who answered, and the answers were very varied. Some see the year as just boxes in a calendar; others see it as a path, a horizon. My response was honestly circumspect: I don’t see it.
As is often said, the streets of cities are veins whose rougher or less rough walls shelter the ants that we are. It is also said that the houses of the cities, although concomitant, are closed silos. Neighbors know each other very little, rarely say hello.
Completed the reading of Illness, from Havi Carel. I had heard this woman in a news report on a rare orphan disease. As a young philosophy teacher, she believed she was in perfect health, master of her means, was athletic, and ate well. And then, suddenly, she ran out of breath.
My novel is being read by benevolent souls. I'm taking my time to be patient. I have enough to do with a busy job, and I also have some other projects, including making my apartment a pleasant place to live. I'm even reading again. Not content with my reading left out (History of Pi too verbose), I turned to Sophie's World.
He sits next to me at the choir rehearsal. He's a big guy from Central America, or from the South, I don't know anymore. He smiles at me; I ask him how he is. He takes the time to open his music bag, sighs, says to me in a sad voice as he shakes his head: "I lost a great friend this weekend."