Yeah, I know that lately this has been little more than links that send you elsewhere, but I’ve always liked collages, so let’s just say that this is some newly-honed mosaic style of blog writing (rather than the cheating shorthand that it is).
This week’s story in the New Yorker, though, Chris Adrian’s “A Tiny Feast” — is so lovely I can’t help myself.
There are of course plenty of lovely stories out there (most of them desperately seeking homes, but that’s whole ‘nother topic) but the professed intent of this blog is “mixing the oil and water of motherhood and writing” after all.
Way back in the very first entry posted here, I opined:
We all behave as if the choice about how to talk about parenthood is easy, lies either in sentimentality or its inverse, some wry jocularity. I have to believe that the truth is more complicated than that, that it resides elsewhere, spreads and deepens, shifts and shimmers; watery enough to both sustain and drown.
Adrian’s story attacks this question, and I, for one, am left speechless before it.