Theme Essay by Jo Scott-Coe
I don’t delude myself that writing an essay can somehow undo an act of violence.
I don’t delude myself that writing an essay can somehow undo an act of violence.
A confession: I fell in love with grief.
I’m uncomfortable around ambulances or the overdressed crowds outside funeral parlors.
It’s an odd suggestion, but I go, leaden and lost in the dust of the midway.
I didn’t see how I could say no. I knew if I were in her shoes, I’d feel the same.
We inherit our passions—perhaps from critics like Douglas Crimp, perhaps from professors like Ross.
He clutched my hand, and I felt his fingers bucking. They were always in motion, but my father held on as hard as he could.
I’m interested only in a narrative presence that is indelible. Writing that is beyond memorable. Unforgettable.
My skin tingled. I had my mother’s undivided attention. I was radiating, humming with bliss.
Last spring and summer, my voice—and my writing—deserted me.