Bernadette on refusing to know what one means:1
I’m refusing to know what I mean
On truth:2
Doesn’t everybody know everything or not, please let me know
On quiet mornings:3
I learn from the rigorous laughing of love to be more quiet in the morning especially if the dismal streets unearth a hideous memory of death, I’ve gotten so used it I’m sorry I said that.
She quotes Chaucer, Parliament of Fowls,4 whose narrator “knows not Love in deed;” he’s only read about it in books. But how else should one know it?
I “learn” from love – a “rigorous laughter” which makes room for silence – but not by example. Example ≠ analogy. Love is not fiction, but, like narrative, it may well “create time where there was none.”5 An element of belief is required. As I’m drawn in, I assume it. I place myself into it; it precedes me.
So when I write of love I write of 6
Again, we are not exemplifying, but analogizing; drawing lines, making lists, arranging things into a recognizable disorder. Love does not foreclose or specify. It is not, but to write about it is.