Innes, Callum
Publisher: Ivorypress
Binding: Paperback
Pages: 43
Measurements: 10.50 x 15.00 cm

Edges. It is twilight and I can open the shutters onto the terrace and look at the last golden traces of the sun and the swifts arching in the air, moving like whips against the dense, raked light. As the air thickens, I can see the blurred edge of everything. This is not a time for definition; I no longer want definition. I do not need clarity. I need a time like now when each thing ceases to become itself and melts towards what is close to it, just as each action I and others have performed ceases to stand alone waiting for someone to come and judge it or record it. Nothing is stable, no colour under this light is stable; the shadows grow darker and the things on the earth merge with each other, just as what all of us did merges into one action, and all our cries and gestures merge into one cry, one gesture. In the morning, when the light has been washed by darkness, we will face clarity and singleness again. In the meantime, the place where my conscience lives is a shadowy, ambiguous place, comforted by soft, eroding edges, and that is enough for now. I might even sleep. (Text by Colm Tóibín)

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