Light Years and beyond
James Salter was such a beautiful and evocative writer of such tight, romantic, poetic prose that when reading him I am completely lost in the world … worlds he creates.
I awoke one morning in my cabin hidden away in the Smoky Mountains of Idaho, which are a chunk of the formidable Sawtooth range, which is part of the Rockies. My small bedroom was dark with no hint of what was going on outside. I stirred, stretched, and thought I’d take a moment before I rose to pick up where I left off with his novel, Light Years, reading it again for at least a third time. After a few minutes, I left it spread open on the sheets, got up, and got dressed. I grabbed some jeans and a heavy wool sweater, thick camp rag socks, and boots and went downstairs where unexpectantly I found everything washed in sunshine. Only then, did I realize I had been so absorbed in Salter’s tale and his scenes of wintertime, that I had dressed for it. Outside there was no snow or rain or falling leaves, it was the height of summer.
*****
Does one ever really stop seducing an ex-lover?
*****
Stepping off the London tube that had comfortably deposited me at Oxford Circus, I turned back and looked through the window. As the train pulled away, I caught the last receding glimpse of the young woman in the light blue ankle-length dress and wondered; why someone chose to play the harp.