On Reading, 1.

Saturday, August 20, 2011
By Deborah Stokol

Perhaps I am a literary coward

because

I do not enjoy

the works of those

who describe

the Human Condition

in too graphic of terms,

preferring, rather,

the ones who may cloak it in shades of blue and innocence,

fleeting wisdom,

unshaded contours that are no less deep,

occasional irony that sears with greater potency,

who tip-toe around it as if it were sly and mercurial,

a sometimes kind,

often cruel,

little creature–

for that is what it is.

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