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kyr_6592 's review for:
The Whalebone Theatre
by Joanna Quinn
In the cocoon of the car, it is easy to talk. Their voices are disembodied, ownerless.
“War might depend on people who don’t flinch, but humanity rather relies on those who do.”
She finds it hard to watch them fight to maintain their composure as the kettledrums roll and the score ascends to its heights. It must cause them something close to agony. Perhaps, she thinks, that is what they require: something that allows them to follow their pain as it rises, in its most beautifully orchestrated form—one that insists on the inevitability of whatever will come, and then releases them, gently, with that knowledge. It is not comfort it gives them, she realizes, but acceptance; not an anaesthetizing of sorrow, but a clear articulation of it.
This imaginative pondering feels as if she is, if not exactly returning to herself, then arranging to meet herself, a little further on.
Their most-loved books have been read so many times, they only have to look at the covers to know how it feels to be enclosed within them. But the worlds contained within the books do not remain between the covers. They seep out and overlay the geography of their lives.
“I mean, even when you’re standing in the rubble, you can usually convince yourself it’s habitable, that with a good rug you could make it homely.”
“I mean, even when you’re standing in the rubble, you can usually convince yourself it’s habitable, that with a good rug you could make it homely.”