Without thinking to book-end
the year by resuming a train
I have been wondering how much
there literally is of parting,
of leave-taking in the taking,
in our address of the upturned
face. We suppose, there cannot
be liberty until so little re-
mains of this ambiguity, which
we know cannot dissolve. Still
more to the point, I wonder if
2012 will not be remembered in
this country as a year of pro-
found interpretive deliverance,
caused by the emergence of a
class so steeped in compulsory
anguish, no suspension could
relieve it; so long compelled
to die, its refusal finally
lanced a humane trepidation.
Was it true: that phobia were a
fear, not a scruple? If we did
not end that sense of parting,
in our rapport with the upturned
face, had we seen an end of fear
of it?
in our rapport with the upturned
face, had we seen an end of fear
of it?
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