“Truth is rightly named the daughter of time, not of authority.” Francis Bacon
“The eternal silence of these spaces frightens me.” (“Le silence eternel des ces espaces infinis m’effraie.”) Pascal
Pietro Liberi (Venetian School) Time Being Overcome by Truth c. 1665 Private Collection. Image: WGA.
An exasperated woman puts the boot in.
How many damned anniversaries does each of us have to have?
Are we not reborn with each new experience, so much more important to us than a bloody, noisy, messy, weepy event that cost our mothers pain?
And that’s just the weddings.
And do not the most significant things happen in the unmarked gaps in time? The greatest passions are felt beneath the lines.
Our deepest thoughts are in silent crevices. We climb in and out of them before facing the world again.
I looked, I laughed, I loved, I hated, I remembered so I repeat. The reasons, the true histories, are unrecorded on the face of time – until someone writes a novel or a poem.
There’s an ugly word in the usually beautiful English language for those pregnant pauses and frightening spaces: interstices.
I once had to say it, trembling on the edge of its four syllables of plosive and sibilant gory, in a reading from a Thomas Hardy novel at a wedding, the ears of bride, groom and a hundred guests pricking at me.
They no longer speak to me.
Interstices. A nasty physical condition? Or a neglected classical Greek hero? “Achilles aimed his spear at his mysterious adversary, and raised his shield, but he was not prepared for the quicksilver cunning of Interstices.”