Ives is not an easy person to live with after his son's death. He's melancholy, doesn't want to enjoy himself. I think he feels a certain guilt in experiencing pleasure. Ives feels as though he's betraying his son's memory by being happy. So, he embraces his purgatorial side. It's all about punishment.
I'm a lot like Ives right now. I was up at 4 a.m., shoveling snow. Then I worked all day. Now, I'm getting ready to put my son to bed after clearing a little more snow with my wife and kids. I'm also sick. A cold has slowly been taking hold of my body. I am now fully possessed by this virus, and I feel like crap.
Therefore, I am crabby, tired, and very impatient. Not very fun to be around. Purgatorial, if you will. I've already had arguments with my wife and daughter. I have very little energy to be friendly or funny. I am barely conscious at the moment.
So, I am just going to take care of some business and then call it a night. You have probably noticed that there is no Poet of the Week. I was too tired last night, too phlegmy tonight, to even consider candidates. Therefore, this last week of 2015 will remain Poet of the Week-less.
I have received no votes for next year's book yet. Therefore, I'm going to add another option:
- The Road by Cormac McCarthy
- The Color Purple by Alice Walker
- Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard
- The World According to Garp by John Irving
Saint Marty is ready for his Nyquil.
|It's your choice|