And They Say Literature Doesn’t Matter
Tomorrow, we are driving to the ends of the earth. We’re traveling this path because, before us, Eudora Welty’s characters left New Orleans and drove to the ends of the earth: Venice, Louisiana in “No Place for You, My Love.” Earlier in my life, after I absorbed all books I could read about King Arthur, I tromped through England visiting sites of the legend: Camelot, Tintagel, Glastonbury Tor, the field where Mordred killed Arthur. Someday, I will go to St. Petersburg because of Helen Dunmore’s novel, The Siege. A book about deprivation, starvation, and war so endeared me to St. Petersburg I want to travel halfway around the world to see it for myself.
Maybe I am too easily drawn to mystery. Maybe imagination embeds itself too deeply in my psyche, seeming all too real. I don’t know. But, tomorrow, first thing in the morning, we are driving to the ends of the earth.
here’s to creative synthesis . . .