I've always liked multiples of seven.
Feb. 10th, 2009 08:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
verity83Book Fourteen: The Singing Creek Where the Willows Grow, by Benjamin Hoff. 371pp
According to this website's page on Opal's mental health, and I believe Elbert Bede remarked on this too, the fact that Opal was obsessed with numbers and counting things is somewhat significant in her mental issues. I noticed that this time reading the book more than I ever did before. She counts everything or wants to count everything, and determines her route by how many stumps or fenceposts or trees she passes. Not to mention her potato choir.
Anyway, as always, the book is both a breath of fresh air and an emotional battering-ram. I'm not sure what else there is to say about it, really.
So, I'll just share this part of the story that has always confused the living daylights out of me. Takes place while Opal is walking home in a thunderstorm.
We were just a-going to start down the path that does lead to our house, when we did hear a calling. It was a mournful sound. I followed it after. Once I did have thinks it came from a root. And then it was like it did come from a big tree. It was a pain voice, like someone calling someone to come. Then it was like a lost voice, trying to find its way among the ferns. It was not a word voice; it was just a voice without words.
I did have wonders what voice it was. I folllowed after its queer callings. Brave Horatius followed after me. He would stop, and look queer puzzle-looks at nowhere. We did go on.
The voice sound came again. Then it was like a voice lost from the person it did belong to. It was a clear, low cry, like a ripple of grey ribbon. We were more near to it. We followed it around a big tree. There it was, come from the man on the stump between that tree and the big tree that was beyond it. The man, he did throw back his head, and the voice came out his throat and went to nowhere. It came again like little bits of queer green fire-flame. And then it was low, and again like a ripple of grey ribbon.
As it was so, he did turn his face about—it was the face of the husband of Sadie McKibben. But the look, the look in his eyes, was a queer, wild look that looked looks at nowhere.
What does that mean to you? I'm still having trouble with it, even now that I've found out what They believe it was she's speaking of.
Next book up will need to be something short, sweet, and less emotionally demanding. I think I know just the one.
According to this website's page on Opal's mental health, and I believe Elbert Bede remarked on this too, the fact that Opal was obsessed with numbers and counting things is somewhat significant in her mental issues. I noticed that this time reading the book more than I ever did before. She counts everything or wants to count everything, and determines her route by how many stumps or fenceposts or trees she passes. Not to mention her potato choir.
Anyway, as always, the book is both a breath of fresh air and an emotional battering-ram. I'm not sure what else there is to say about it, really.
So, I'll just share this part of the story that has always confused the living daylights out of me. Takes place while Opal is walking home in a thunderstorm.
We were just a-going to start down the path that does lead to our house, when we did hear a calling. It was a mournful sound. I followed it after. Once I did have thinks it came from a root. And then it was like it did come from a big tree. It was a pain voice, like someone calling someone to come. Then it was like a lost voice, trying to find its way among the ferns. It was not a word voice; it was just a voice without words.
I did have wonders what voice it was. I folllowed after its queer callings. Brave Horatius followed after me. He would stop, and look queer puzzle-looks at nowhere. We did go on.
The voice sound came again. Then it was like a voice lost from the person it did belong to. It was a clear, low cry, like a ripple of grey ribbon. We were more near to it. We followed it around a big tree. There it was, come from the man on the stump between that tree and the big tree that was beyond it. The man, he did throw back his head, and the voice came out his throat and went to nowhere. It came again like little bits of queer green fire-flame. And then it was low, and again like a ripple of grey ribbon.
As it was so, he did turn his face about—it was the face of the husband of Sadie McKibben. But the look, the look in his eyes, was a queer, wild look that looked looks at nowhere.
What does that mean to you? I'm still having trouble with it, even now that I've found out what They believe it was she's speaking of.
Next book up will need to be something short, sweet, and less emotionally demanding. I think I know just the one.
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Date: 2009-02-11 04:31 am (UTC)