The tree fell.
Not a but the. So a particular tree. What kind? As I write, I am thinking of a birch. Do they have birches in Australia? What tree would my brother call up as an image? How big is the tree? I didn’t say. Did the tree fall suddenly, beaten by a brutal storm that rendered it top-heavy with rain or struck by a flash of light? Did it fall creaking and slowly, a giant tumbled by its own age.
This is oversimplification of a complicated theory, but Barthes is not easily read alone. Though he likely would not mind my perception. There needs to be a classroom discussion to hear all the voices and prove the point.
I’ve not taken on a new novel as yet, nor picked up another journal from my backlog. I need to spend the time first learning to read. Blunder again into Joyce’s Afternoon, A Story or Shelley Jackson’s Patchwork Girl. These too, I feel a need for companionship on the journey. I am missing signposts and seem to race through to remain lost.
Perhaps Barthes will help me find my way.
How do you find time to read all this stuff? I still feel I let you down because I quit “Love in Time of Cholera.”