He was a man, like all the rest,
or so my mamma said.
The violet and green that decorate my body,
a sign of his devotion and affection and nothing more.
Or so my mamma said.
He was a man, like all the rest,
a sign of his devotion and affection and nothing more.
The stabbing, crawling of my flesh, a reflection of his love.
He was a man, like all the rest,
with fists in place of open palms.
The stabbing crawling of my flesh, a reflection of his love.
When he raped me, when he beat me,
a reflection of his love and nothing more.
F
Fiercely Tender: The Simple Complex World of Michael Ondaatje’s Novels
Shortly afterwards in that novel we encounter a celebration of the body, grime and all, unimpeded by this abstraction called mind. While writing the body might seem not altogether unusual, my point is that you cannot simply assume its naturalness. Language, even fictional language, is so much of a mentally...
