You know, I have read and re-read it and I'm still a bit lost for words. But I'll try anyway, although I fear I have nothing to say except seconding what everyone else has said.
Beautiful descriptions of Stephen, of the passage of time and of slowly re-emerging memories - anchored across the intervening time - what a great image.
And the words, the Irish, the Catalan, the languages. Oh.
It was a world of dizzy and distant riches, to be studied and catalogued but also to be drunk in, handled as rich earth spilling through small hands.
YES. That is a perfect image, and such a great description of Stephen.
And generally just beautiful wording.
It was in that summer that he learned the meaning of foreigner; that in truth it was a meaningless term, that all had travelled somewhere to be where they were, and he was foreign himself, to himself, and to all around. Oh Stephen.
This is lush and thickly, evocatively descriptive, and you found the perfect way to end it as well, which I think is always the hard bit.
He had grown older in mere days and years in that place, Catalan replacing Irish as the quicker language on his lips, but it was also, in that place, that he had begun to be whom he would be... remembering that first time he had felt no fear of the creatures of the earth and sky, knowing himself a part of all he studied, knowing himself.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2010-07-28 04:28 pm (UTC)Beautiful descriptions of Stephen, of the passage of time and of slowly re-emerging memories - anchored across the intervening time - what a great image.
And the words, the Irish, the Catalan, the languages. Oh.
It was a world of dizzy and distant riches, to be studied and catalogued but also to be drunk in, handled as rich earth spilling through small hands.
YES. That is a perfect image, and such a great description of Stephen.
And generally just beautiful wording.
It was in that summer that he learned the meaning of foreigner; that in truth it was a meaningless term, that all had travelled somewhere to be where they were, and he was foreign himself, to himself, and to all around.
Oh Stephen.
This is lush and thickly, evocatively descriptive, and you found the perfect way to end it as well, which I think is always the hard bit.
He had grown older in mere days and years in that place, Catalan replacing Irish as the quicker language on his lips, but it was also, in that place, that he had begun to be whom he would be... remembering that first time he had felt no fear of the creatures of the earth and sky, knowing himself a part of all he studied, knowing himself.
Delightful. Just delightful. Thank you again.