Kleinzeit

Firkin? Pipkin?

Kleinzeit was between sleeping and waking when he became aware of Word for the first time. There was a continual unfolding in his mind, and the unfolding, continually unfolding, allowed itself to be known as Word.

Doré was the one, said Word. Who since him has had a range like that! Don Quixote is the best thing he ever wrote, but the Bible is a strong contender, and of course Auntie’s Inferno.

Dante’s, not Auntie’s, said Kleinzeit. Doré didn’t write. He was an illustrator.

Of course, said Word. It’s been so long since I’ve had a really intellectual discussion. It’s that other chap who wrote the Bible. Firkin? Pipkin? Pilkin? Wilkins.

Milton, you mean? said Kleinzeit.

That’s it, said Word. Milton. They don’t write like that any more. As it were the crack of leather on willow. A well-bowled thought, you know, meeting a well-swung sentence. No, the pitches aren’t green the way they were, the whites don’t take the light the same way. It mostly isn’t writing now, it’s just spelling.

It wasn’t Milton wrote the Bible, said Kleinzeit.

Don’t come the heavy pedant with me, said Word. Don’t make a fetish of knowing who said what, it doesn’t matter all that much. I have seen minds topple like tall trees. I have heard the winds of ages sighing in the silence. What was I going to say? Yes. Get Hospital to tell you about what’s-hisname.

Who? said Kleinzeit.

It’ll come to me, said Word. Or you. Barrow full of rocks and all that.

What about barrow full of rocks? said Kleinzeit.

Quite, said Word.