Glenn Kubish

I collect sentences. Here are four more from the forest of pages read. The trucks filed by against the background of the white church in a long string like the days of a man's life, and it seemed as though it would never end.  - Chekhov, A Misfortune The trucks filing by are rail cars moving across the Russian landscape while Ilyin begs Sofya to accept his love. Without a new sentence, Chekhov artfully links the words that describe the physical scene ( The trucks filed by against the background of the white church in a long string...)  to the words that describe the sweet, bewildering feeling of being there to watch a passing train pull a new emptiness into view ( ...the days of a man's life, and it seemed as though it would never end. ) , counting on a simple coupling word ( like ) to do its work, and hold. "It's as if the Venetian paintings were made to frighten us," said my Enishte later. "And it isn't enough that we be in awe of the...

For a reason that I trust will reveal itself as time rolls along, and despite that article of faith proving how poor a researcher I am (I mean, when has data collection by itself magically suggested a theory, instead of the other way around?), I am almost nine months into a writing project that took an interesting turn yesterday. Starting back on Halloween last year, I have witnessed in word and photograph the sights and thoughts that strike me every day I ride my bike. I am into my fourth booklet of souvenirs. I have been uncharacteristically disciplined about taking pics and reviewing video and pencilling my observations from the saddle. The entries are little tombstones of the days. From 11.29: A joy of riding a bicycle in the city is actually touching the city as I ride. I reach out to touch the overhanging spruce boughs. I let them scrape my helmet hello. I like to run my gloved hand along the bridge railing, especially when there is a film of snow to wake up. I like to re...