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5.0 AVERAGE
My elderly neighbour has been out since early morning raking leaves. He started with the small scattering underneath his one single tree, then he moved on to tackle all the visiting ones from other people’s gardens that had gathered on the footpath outside his house and even on his own front steps.
I imagine him waking up, preoccupied already by those ever swirling leaves, wanting to get outside quickly to tackle them, to force them into neat piles, to feel the satisfaction from the tidiness of his work, to put order on his little universe. It’s all about control.
Some people rake up leaves, others prefer to rake up words, and not always into such regimented piles, fortunately.
I imagine M. Sarki waking up in the early morning, already preoccupied with the words swirling around in his consciousness, both his own words and those that may have drifted in and settled in the corners.
But I don’t see him raking them into neat piles. No, I see him reaching down and raising bunches of them on high. I see him scattering them about with childlike glee, fascinated by their colour and shape, hypnotised by the new and creative patterns they make when they fall. That’s how M. Sarki fashions his universe - it’s all about poetry, it's all about the glory of words.
And talking of words, these three prose pieces are quick to read, as quick as kicking your way through your neighbour's carefully stacked piles of leaves, and just as satisfying. Go have some Autumn fun with them yourself!
Words are what we've got.
What else lives as long as words do?
Sarki takes the English alphabet as a bolt of fine cloth and stitches together words, thought and meaning. I imagine that just as Michelangelo could look at a block of marble and see the statue as plain as it was before him, Sarki also could look at the keyboard of characters and imagine these three beautifuly written stories.
"We are certainly shaped by our initial impressions, are we not?" Sarki's narrator asks in the book's first story. I believe we often are, and in the case of Sarki's prose, I am one of his readers who is sufficiently impressed and hopes to be reading more of his fiction in the future.
What else lives as long as words do?
Sarki takes the English alphabet as a bolt of fine cloth and stitches together words, thought and meaning. I imagine that just as Michelangelo could look at a block of marble and see the statue as plain as it was before him, Sarki also could look at the keyboard of characters and imagine these three beautifuly written stories.
"We are certainly shaped by our initial impressions, are we not?" Sarki's narrator asks in the book's first story. I believe we often are, and in the case of Sarki's prose, I am one of his readers who is sufficiently impressed and hopes to be reading more of his fiction in the future.