William Boyd, Ph.D. (professor_boyd) wrote,
William Boyd, Ph.D.

  • Mood:

no particular place to go

from a draft of a letter to Margaret, scrawled under a tree before the thunder came; 16/2/05

I've thought about what you said—about leaving Baskerville. There's nothing left, is there? Once he's graduated, there's nothing left and no reason to stay. And I think I've decided, Mags. Going half time somewhere, anywhere, and just writing. Been forever since I wanted that. It had been forever since I got what I wanted, and now that it's happened in one area, it follows logically I'd want the rest, yeah? That I'd want everything else I planned before? I found something today, Mags, here. From the writer Carole Maso:

Words are the ginger candies my dying friends have sucked on. Or the salve of water. Precious words, contoured by silence. Informed by the presence of the end. Words are the crow's feet embedded in the skin of the father I love. Words are like that to me, still. ... Words are the lines vibrating in the forest or in the painting. Pressure that enter us—bisect us, disorder us, unite us, free us, help us, hurt us, cause anxiety, pleasure, pain.

Words are the footprints as they turn away in the snow.

There is no substitute for the language I love.

That's fucking brilliant. I'll spare you the things I'd add to that, but you should know that if you had time to hear—and soon, right? We have to see one another soon, so I can hold your hands and tell you, really tell you how this happened and why I'm slightly less of a miserable fuck than the brother you saw eight months ago—if you had time to hear, I could go for hours and what he's brought me. If I've returned half of it than I die happy, understand? After everything, I die happy.

Rain's coming, Mags. I'll finish this off tonight and send it before I change my mind.

You were right, you know. You always fucking are, aren't you? Love to Petra. Love to Davidicus and that rat bastard of pool shot you're married to. Love to you.
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