terça-feira, 27 de dezembro de 2016

  • "
    Don’t ask for the true story;
    why do you need it?
    It’s not what I set out with
    or what I carry.
    What I’m sailing with,
    a knife, blue fire,
    luck, a few good words
    that still work, and the tide.
    The true story was lost
    on the way down to the beach, it’s something
    I never had, that black tangle
    of branches in a shifting light,
    my blurred footprints
    filling with salt
    water, this handful
    of tiny bones, this owl’s kill;
    a moon, crumpled papers, a coin,
    the glint of an old picnic,
    the hollows made by lovers
    in sand a hundred
    years ago: no clue.
    The true story lies
    among the other stories,
    a mess of colours, like jumbled clothing
    thrown off or away,
    like hearts on marble, like syllables, like
    butchers’ discards.
    The true story is vicious
    and multiple and untrue
    after all. Why do you
    need it? Don’t ever
    ask for the true story.
  • –    Margaret Atwood 

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