I just read a series of letters written to a dead person. A series of letters written by a wife to her husband. A series of letters written by a loving wife to her husband who was killed by her own son. A series of letters that took me through the goriest recesses of the mind of a blank boy, his blank mother, and my own blank self. For a moment or a few more I would rather dismiss all of it, the world itself as “horseshit”. Kevin was not sure of surety a few years after the sordid Thursday became the Thursday. A stack of unaddressed envelopes with letters that explore and force to explore is what I found surrounding the emptiness around me. I will not name the book for fear of taking an experience away from the incidental few who may read this post. However, if the fictitious few who read this post have also read what I just got done reading know the hurt from an arrow shot from the bow of shallow consumerism.
I will write more on the subject once I have recovered from the initial blow of Lionel Shriver’s attack.
I will write more on the subject once I have recovered from the initial blow of Lionel Shriver’s attack.
