Sorrow, joy, eloquence

You have all had weeks like I’m having. Our family is grieving the loss of a great friend, who died Sunday (Brandon remembers him here), and at the same time we are celebrating my brother-in-law’s engagement and the wonderful news that our darling 3-year-old nephew apparently does not, according to his evaluation on Monday, have autism. The bitter things and the sweet mingle in the ever-changing river of life.

This morning I finished some writing on deadline and will be occupied for the majority of the next couple days with funeral-related activities. But I pledge to post my review of Volf’s The End of Memory by the end of the week; it’s such an amazing book, I don’t want you to miss it. In the meantime, did you see this? John Wilson’s review of Denis Donoghue’s On Eloquence (“the exuberance with which a word, a phrase, or a line of verse presents itself as if it had broken free from its setting and declared its independence”) makes me want to run out and pick up the book just for the snippets of gorgeous writing Donoghue commends. I’d love to know the sources of all the glorious lines (quoted at the end of Wilson’s piece) that Donoghue remembers simply because “each exists in an eternal present moment.” The last couple days I’ve been thinking about whether my novel should be primarily “useful” or “beautiful,” and thus I am rescued by Wilson’s insistence that “We are not faced with a choice between savoring eloquence and serving our brothers and sisters, or between eloquence and truth.” A needful reminder, and (naturally) well put.

30. January 2008 by Mindy
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