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True lies and spilled ink...

There is a reason I keep writing stories. In fact, there are as many reasons as there are stories. Picasso said, “Art is a lie that makes us see the truth.” He could have said just as well, “Art is the truth that makes us see a lie.” I write fiction because in a story you can tell a truth that would get you shot at or run out of town if you dared say it for a fact. The truth is, facts can lie. In the mouths of politicians, they usually do. That something must be true because it is factual is a common misconception. That all myths are fantasy is another. A good story sheds more light in the world than a bad sermon. We need to read the Bible like we read the newspaper and read the newspaper like we read the Bible. In both, we see God at work between the lines. A short story is harder to write than a novel. Humans are never content to say only what is necessary. The trouble with happy endings is that they don’t convince us. Somehow, we don’t think we quite deserve them. If lif

Ashes in the wind...

One may eat less in elderhood than in younger years, but old people still get hungry. Appetites persist. Smaller portions are savored more deeply over time.

I've been reading two love stories lately. One is about a young couple, maybe late twenties, the other about two lovers in their seventies. The stories are very different in the details but the themes are constant.

When I was eighteen, I thought passion was the exclusive dominion of the young. Even at twenty-eight, I still possessed a notion that love between two people was sustained by passion, that one had to sustain that fervor in order to keep love alive.

Now, approaching eighty-two, I believe the young are clueless about passion, and maybe love, too, though not immune to either. Love that refuses to die or dim is what sustains passion in a relationship through a shared lifetime. The body fades and fails, but the heart burns bright and hot until there's nothing left but ashes in the wind.

 

henrymitchellbooks.com

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