Carnations

In this delicate Carnation, language is a gesture that expands beyond the pages. The experience of reading this book is similar to that of a ballet in which one participates as a spectator dancer, gliding from the density of an incendiary encounter to the tears that will flood one's eyes at inappropriate times. A voice speaks of intermittent contacts (on stage and in life) as if sharing secrets and confessing a delay. But when it expresses itself, it reorganizes time, and there are no longer empty spaces. Even when the body's gears creak, an immeasurable array of affections invents the possible in the impossible romance. Thus, the gaps between the woman with long fingers counting sodden bills and the man who sees a Pina Bausch dance—and between them and us—are suspended.