fimmtudagur, ágúst 24, 2006

havsens bunn

Two days ago someone who has very little patience for hobbits asked her what she liked about Tolkien. She answered without hestitation: The evocation of deep time. What other author has managed that so effectively?

And tonight she looks out at the sea of dialects sloshing back and forth among her friends and is struck with genuine wonder. How did this part of her life become eleven years deep? She is certain that it is depth and not length. Somehow the measure of experience in a little plot of this city is like this, a few square meters of almost incredible depth, a bore taken in the Greenland ice or in the center of a neolithic burial mound, a plumb line let slowly down into trench off Japan.

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