|Foto: Astrid Nydahl|
For how difficult to contemplate a future! My life, normally so predictable, steadfast and (to a degree) enjoyable, has now become precarious as a runaway rollercoaster. Unable to work, or rather to concentrate in preparation for work, I find myself at the mercy of random emails, text messages and telephone calls – “breaking news” – rarely bringing a promise of hope, only more dread: 76,000 deaths from the coronavirus in the United States, and counting.
It’s the writer’s curse to imagine that meaning can be gleaned from the most terrible circumstances, and that it is within the writer’s power to express it.
No sleepless nights are so bereft of hope, so miserable with dread of the future, that they can’t be redeemed – transfigured – by switching on a bedside lamp and reading.