Back in the summer I attempted to maintain a "Poem of the Week" series. That lasted about two weeks. Undaunted by my miserable following through with that idea, I'm making my inaugural post in what I'm dubbing the "Lit Bit" series. Each week I'll post an excerpt from something I've read recently that struck me as particularly profound, strikingly well-written, or both. I'll probably change the name of the series at some point--"Lit Bit" just sounds glib. And, I realize that posting a measly excerpt from a work hardly does justice to the whole. But maybe if something I post grabs your interest, you'll read the entire work. That's my hope, anyway.
So, I begin the series with the closing passage from Cormac McCarthy's The Road*:
"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."
* I commented on the novel a few posts ago.
So, I begin the series with the closing passage from Cormac McCarthy's The Road*:
"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."
* I commented on the novel a few posts ago.
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