Self-Deceiving Snow

‘So many writers hover horrifically, caught in the air like cautious hummingbirds. They ice a stodgy egg-laden cake with obscene floridity; with sugared petals strewn on a bed of almond cobbles. They batter half-truths in layer upon layer of some rich and heavy substance; something so sweet you forget why it was you ever took a bite. The crust, you see, is almost always greater than the core. The words stand tall like shadows cast by a small man in the evening light’ (Walter Snow)

There he goes again: the great Walter Snow, ever tumbling into his own trap. He is a work of art in himself, though he never produced one (not a worthy one, at any rate). But then I never just take the work on its own. The work is not the work – not really. The work is the work, and the writer, and the reader, and an eternal set of circumstances. The work is the work and its place in the world.

More on this one day…

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