{ text }
“If I had your talent with charcoal I would add another, and that would be the birdsong angle of your wrist, reaching to tie the ribbon on your shoes. I only saw it once, and it was not such a pretty picture then, for your shoulders were sun-peeling and red and you had a tired annoyance in your rust-dust eyes as you tugged at the string. Away from the here and now, in memory, it becomes one of Degas’ ballerinas, something unselfconscious and echoingly real.” (from The Shivering Ground)