The imagery was great this piece, a tour de force of showing and not telling. In the last few pieces of yours I’ve read, I see the outlines of a technique, a kind of style that I wonder if you're developing consciously. You begin by describing the scene, leaving quite a bit of mystery for the reader. In this case, the reader does not know who Ascher is or where he is going, but is nevertheless captivated by the series of images presented to him – a railing in the subway most people avoid, an old man clutching a kerchief, a smile interrupted by an oncoming train. And then you end with a kind of philosophical flourish, and the reader is left to ponder the relation between the reflection and the series of images that came before. What is interesting is that, in the best possible sense, that relationship is not obvious. The reader is forced to grapple with it. What is the relationship between honest fiction and a leaf blowing through a subway tunnel that looks like a butterfly? For me, it was the experience of the way the world gives the writer a story. The world gave you a butterfly that flew down a subway tunnel – only it didn’t. It was just a leaf. But that’s precisely how the world operates. There is a deep ambiguity at play here. To what extent was the image of the butterfly a result of Asher projecting his own fantasies onto the leaf, which he misperceived? Or, to what is extent did the world present a butterfly-looking leaf, which Ascher perceived perfectly well? I think you pointed to that blurry line where writing takes place - where perhaps all art takes place - that vague, porous, and ill-defined boundary between mind and world.
The imagery was great this piece, a tour de force of showing and not telling. In the last few pieces of yours I’ve read, I see the outlines of a technique, a kind of style that I wonder if you're developing consciously. You begin by describing the scene, leaving quite a bit of mystery for the reader. In this case, the reader does not know who Ascher is or where he is going, but is nevertheless captivated by the series of images presented to him – a railing in the subway most people avoid, an old man clutching a kerchief, a smile interrupted by an oncoming train. And then you end with a kind of philosophical flourish, and the reader is left to ponder the relation between the reflection and the series of images that came before. What is interesting is that, in the best possible sense, that relationship is not obvious. The reader is forced to grapple with it. What is the relationship between honest fiction and a leaf blowing through a subway tunnel that looks like a butterfly? For me, it was the experience of the way the world gives the writer a story. The world gave you a butterfly that flew down a subway tunnel – only it didn’t. It was just a leaf. But that’s precisely how the world operates. There is a deep ambiguity at play here. To what extent was the image of the butterfly a result of Asher projecting his own fantasies onto the leaf, which he misperceived? Or, to what is extent did the world present a butterfly-looking leaf, which Ascher perceived perfectly well? I think you pointed to that blurry line where writing takes place - where perhaps all art takes place - that vague, porous, and ill-defined boundary between mind and world.