The voices of the dead resonate like the bass and drums of a jazz quartet. They suggest and murmur, they keep it all in time. Elie Wiesel said that "poets exist so that the dead may vote" and so they do. They cast their ballots and know they can't succeed. The Romantics are outmoded, the modernists out of style. Still, the whisper of the dead is what puts a halt on deafness. Deafness to the beauty, deafness to the glory, deafness to redemption all around. If only we would listen to the poets and lamenters, the psalmists and their woes. Give an ear to all the writers and directors, let our eyes take in their characters, their lessons and their worlds. They whisper, they shuffle and they never hit the snare. They won't make you listen and they won't make you heed. They're backup singers to far less worthy entertainers. The book says: we may be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us. Lend an eye to the votes they cast. The back of every ballot says "so who's dead after all?"
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22 January 2012
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Your words, my friend, have enlivened and enlightened my soul as I read them. Keep it coming, I'm reading and enjoying.
Posted by: Kristen | 14 February 2012 at 09:44 AM