Feathers and Stones

Season is one of those words that goes to our origin in language; as we ripen, so do the words and the languages we use. At the same time, we are the words and languages we use. And, for better or for worse, the words and languages use us, and we are thereby revealed. This is how they change and grow, how they disappear or slowly crumble into proud obsolescence. Farmers haul them out of the soil and build fences with them. Ancient sites of worship were raised that way, made entirely of words, some at the time already so old as to be almost unrecognizable and certainly misunderstood, except in terms of their haunting beauty. We may try to think of ourselves without words, and doing so is a good exercise. So is rolling a stone up a hill. The word stone is heavier than the word feather. How do you account for that?

[ 1958 ]