Friday, May 15, 2009


An old man reminiscing about his friend to his wife in a recent New Yorker story set in South India by Salman Rushdie. 

“He was my shadow, and I was his. Two shadows, each shadowing the other, to that we were reduced, that is so. The old move through the world of the young like shades, unseen, of no concern. But the shadows see each other and know who they are. So it was with us. We knew, let me say this, who we were. And now I am a shadow without a shadow to shadow. He who knew me knows nothing now, and therefore I am not known. What else, woman, is death?”

1 comment:

Tree said...

This has a lovely rhythm to it.