The Greatest Literary Critic
He died in New Haven, Connecticut,
October 14, 2019, the day we give thanks
for the bounty of the year, “Turkey Day,”
we call it in our home in beautiful Georgian
Bay. He was 89 and in failing health; so, it
wasn’t unexpected, and I didn’t cry. But he
brought me to tears whenever he talked of
literature, reciting whichever poet to make
his point, the magnitude of his memory
was so scary—he could recite Shakespeare
and Paradise Lost at will; but he died lonely,
and unresolved. For all of its genius, literature
could not satisfy the longing in his soul to be
whole and complete, like the acorn seed
that became a mighty oak tree; he died,
merely, the greatest literary critic.
No comments:
Post a Comment