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The axiom, that the closer words get to capturing it, the more elusive life proves to be, finds full expression here. I can't help but feel Bouvier is having his life and writing it, too: diary revisions under the power of such talent is a cheat. Such wordsmithery can't be bought with all the gold in Fort Knox, yet is so layered and nuanced here that an inescapable chill enters the prose. I recall an old flame taking me to task for revising letters I wrote her on the grounds that she wasn't getting my pure expression. I ignored her, confident that posterity would vindicate me. Nicolas Bouvier, these many years later, has provided that vindication, bittersweet though it may be. There is something to writing that has not been varnished to a sparkly finish, an organic quality that invites the reader by virtue of making them feel a sense of grip, of engagement; with Bouvier I felt rather that I was at the feet of the master holding forth on youth and wonder from the vantage of mature reflection, smooth and polished and sliding away like mercury. Beautiful expression, yes, but lacking that quality complained of so long ago. Odd how the past revisits us, isn't it? It never looks anything like you expect.

2022-10-04 12:02