Any estimable exercise of the imagination draws upon such a complex richness of memory that it truly enjoys the expansiveness — the surprising turns, the response to light and darkness — of any living thing.
“Yours is not (I regret to say) the story they tell / although you howl and gash yourself / scurrying out of the tombs
where you now live. / God forces some. / God’s prophet came
to send your unclean spirit / into pigs, who ran amok. / I saw you
at the bottom of the cliff of pity / diving in pig blood— / “cleansed” now.”
Anne Carson | “The Grace That Comes By Violence”