Saturday, February 29, 2020

the last book I ever read (Station Eleven: A Novel by Emily St. John Mandel, excerpt four)

from Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel:

“Enter Lear,” Kirsten said. Twenty years earlier, in a life she mostly couldn’t remember, she had a small nonspeaking role in a short-lived Toronto production of King Lear. Now she walked in sandals whose soles had been cut from an automobile tire, three knives in her belt. She was carrying a paperback version of the play, the stage directions highlighted in yellow. “Mad,” she said, continuing, “fantastically dressed with wild flowers.”

“But who comes here?” the man learning the part of Edgar said. His name was August, and he had only recently taken to acting. He was the second violin and a secret poet, which is to say no one in the Symphony knew he wrote poetry except Kirsten and the seventh guitar. “The safer sense will ne’er accommodate … will ne’er accommodate … line?”

“His master thus,” Kirsten said.

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