We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.
With your permission I’d like to take a few minutes in this time of war and ruination and buying and selling to sing literature’s praises. That’s because I want to remind myself, probably, that metaphor, or the primary means by which writing gets written and moves, in some cases, into the realm of literature, says, in addition to the many other things that it says, that we are not alone. Here’s a masterful poem by the masterful Southern poet Rodney Jones:
These fulsome nouns, these abbreviations of the air,
Are not real, but two of them may fit a small man
I knew in high school, who, seeing an accident,
Stopped one day, leapt over a mangled guardrail,
Took a mother and two children from a flooded…
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