EDMUND WHITE
A Boy’s Own Story
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For the
real movements of a life are gradual, then sudden; they resist becoming
anecdotes, they pulse like quasars from long-dead stars to reach the
vivid planet of the present, they drift like fog over the ship until the
spread sails are merely panels of gray in grayer air and surround
becomes object, as in those perceptual tests where figure and ground
reverse, the kissing couple in profile turn into the outlines of the
mortuary urn that holds their own ashes. Time wears down resolve–then
suddenly violence, something irrevocable flashes out of nowhere, there
are thrashing fins and roiled, blood-streaked water, death floats up on
its side, eyes bulging.