Fugitive

Fugitive

Fugitive

Fugitive

Excerpt

CERTAINTY: the death of love, and so of poetry, since it is the death of the possible or probable. Certainty destroys wonder, desire, joy, sorrow--those inclinations swayed from love by love. Those intersections with the matrix of the All, the process which is our course, tangling as we reconstruct. It may be that certainty is the only compensation commensurate to the loss deeded us by our constant friend and metaphor, Adam. Almost certainly we seem bent always upon certainty. It is almost a certainty that we shall not dissolve into absolute certainty this side that other vague dream Eden, the grave. This side our first best bed? The mystery of silence whence we come, the last mastery of silence which we come to desire: these are our limits, the boundaries of whatever greatness suitable to dissolving words.

COINCIDENCE: the tease, the tempter, the perverse agent of process. Against which poor certainty hasn't a chance. Coincidence leads Laura Weaver, at ten, to say in a wise burst she does not understand, "I never asked to be born, did I? I never asked!" The coincidence of her father's death in Korea, after the leave during which he begot her in her grandfather's house, just before the truce in July. Can you believe it? He was killed on the very day she was born in gentle June, in a quiet house of this quiet town. "I never asked," spoken in protest against her mother, who calls her from play with the Negro child living in the house across and down the road. In the morning when Laura Weaver gets up, before she goes downstairs to her breakfast, she can see Betty Huff's house out her window, through the oaks, with the two hounds walking in the yard nosing at . . .

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