By Alex Woolf
In the hottest part of the fire I see fleeting shapes that resemble human figures. They nod and kiss the air. They cheer and weep and bow and pray, constantly refashioning themselves into ever more passionate and undignified forms.
It’s both a pretty show and inconsequential, with each flame-figure here and gone before my dull wits can fix it in my mind. But they leave an impression nonetheless, the faintest trace on the retina, and the imagination of the subjugated can sprout in the thinnest soil. When I look into the fire, I see my life with you, and each nodding, kissing, cheering, weeping, self-abasing flame is a reminder of all the roles I’ve been obliged to play.
You always disliked real fire, preferring the kind you have to plug in. Real fire is noisy and messy. Continue Reading This Story