Colm Tóibín on the wondrously strange Catalonian classic
In some societies, language is a way to restrain experience, take it down to a level where it might stay. It is neither ornament nor exaltation; it is firm and austere in its purpose. It is thus a form of calm, modest knowledge or maybe even evasion.
‘… all unwilled by me, uncalled for, involuntarily, suddenly there broke forth my peculiar inheritance – these wings of mine! Still adolescent, as yet … and moist, sticky, like freshly unfurled foliage on an April tree. But, all the same, wings.’
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