Friday, June 20, 2003
"But most of the time, death for poets is what it is for the rest of us -- the beginning of that slow, inexorable process of being forgotten."
In an article about the poet Robert Lowell in The New York Times, I found the sentence above. So sharp, so cruel. When I look at pictures of my brother, he seems like he's 80, 000 miles away. I really can barely handle looking at photos of him, so when I can, I do.
It's strange beyond explanation or belief.
He's such a familiar part of my life. To know he's alive and around is second nature. To realize/believe that he isn't will take me years.
The thought that he will be forgotten torments me.
Anyway, I cannot write about him, so I'll stop trying for now.
-mk
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In an article about the poet Robert Lowell in The New York Times, I found the sentence above. So sharp, so cruel. When I look at pictures of my brother, he seems like he's 80, 000 miles away. I really can barely handle looking at photos of him, so when I can, I do.
It's strange beyond explanation or belief.
He's such a familiar part of my life. To know he's alive and around is second nature. To realize/believe that he isn't will take me years.
The thought that he will be forgotten torments me.
Anyway, I cannot write about him, so I'll stop trying for now.
-mk
