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Through the two windows the morning light. The big tree in the little park throws its leaves from above, another rather rich, rust-colored sky around the branches.
It is morning after night when relief explodes. Alone in the city, full of joy, I write to two people on the other side of the sea. I am writing to you that now I can start planning my trip to your country. To the east coast where Claire Messud is and then the long walk to California and George Saunders.
… And when I’m still there, why not look north, across the border? So that my journey forms a triangle. To Kim Thúy in Montreal.
But this morning I don’t read any of them.
Instead, a poet I heard about at a young age and only now have the sense to discover: Adrienne Rich (1929-2012). A crystal clear poem, firmly rooted in his radical humanism.
In 1997, the Clinton administration presented him with a prestigious award.
She denies it with the following words:
I could not accept such an award from President Clinton or this White House because the very meaning of art, as I understand it, is incompatible with the cynical politics of this administration … [Art] It means nothing if you simply decorate the table of the power that is holding you hostage.
A consistent attitude, worthy of respect.
