Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

Day Six

A meme stolen from umbreons!

Day one. A song
Day two. A picture
Day three. A book/ebook/fanfic
Day four. A site
Day five. A youtube clip
Day six. A quote
Day seven. Whatever tickles your fancy

Good job, me, I'm late in posting AGAIN.

A quote, a quote... I hate quotes. *brbs*

This is my favorite page of my favorite book, The Book of Flying (a novel) by Keith Miller. It is on page 166 of my hardcover edition. Solya is a prostitute with whom the main character, Pico, a poet, librarian, and traveler, is involved in a romance. Narya, their friend, has a large collection of books. (Bold by me.)

"Why don't you print your poems?" Solya asked after he'd read to her one night. "One of my clients owns a press, he could make a chap-book. They would sell, your voice is so new, so strange."
"If you want me to write out a poem for you, Solya, I will."
"But you could make money, you could buy more books for your shelves."
"I have enough to eat and Narya's library contains a lifetime's supply of literature. Narya herself contains a lifetime's supply of literature. I don't write my poems for gold."
"Why do you write them?"
"Why do women have children? To see my soul spread its wings, to hear my voice from beyond the boundaries of my skin."
"But couldn't you sell them as well?"
"Tell me, what am I to you, Solya? You don't ask me to pay for our nights of love."
"Of course not."
"It would change the nature of our lovemaking."
"But not for me. I'd gladly give you money, stories, jewelry, whatever you desired, just to keep your pretty face next to mine in the long nights, to taste your kiss."
"For me it would change. I wouldn't know if I came to you because I craved your body or a new ribbon for my hair."
"So your poems are love affairs."
"With all the squabbles and separations love affairs entail. And all the kisses."
"Kisses mean nothing." She glanced at him sidelong, sly.
"You are right. They mean nothing."
"Do you know what I mean, really, Pico?" She propped herself on an elbow and looked at him.
"I think I do. The same word may be used in two poems. But in one poem it is sad and lovely and in the other flimsy. What matters are the motions of the heart beneath the hand that holds the pen. My pulse may somehow enter my pen, the ink itself my blood, the pen an open vein on the page."
"You do understand. A kiss is not a kiss."
"Is not a kiss is not a kiss."


( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
Oct. 2nd, 2009 10:54 pm (UTC)
This is lovely. I think I'm going to have to read this book now.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )