Saturday, April 28, 2012

Silk




You never know how a book will find you.  I have been in Maine further downsizing.  I remembered my neighbor, Robert, had wintered some of my plants.  There was no way I could include the pots on a return trip to San Miguel, so I advertised them for sale on Craigslist.  A woman contacted me.  She lives in a big Victorian house which she shares with other women who rent rooms.  She had no car but offered to pay a small charge to deliver.  Ok.  I took the planters (quite lovely and inexpensive) and paid her a visit.  She's an architect with a large drafting table in her living room, a lovely space with large windows, a fireplace, an oriental rug and a large red sofa.  There, on an antique wooden table, was a small volume with the profile of a Japanese woman on its cover.  I picked it up to peruse it while my hostess went to find Seadogs half price (baseball) admission tickets, a gift for me.  The book is "Silk" by Alessandro Baricco.  I have never seen such capacity for quietude in a book.  It is a poetic enactment.  And a love story.  No, a story of yearning, of fortunes told by birds in flight.  My grandmother, who was very short, used to say, "Good things come in small packages."  "Silk" is lovely, the words as light as rice paper, as silhouettes behind shades.

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