Prefaces
are always written after, but pretend to be from before – the philosopher Hegel
thought they were a hindrance to knowledge – but Hegel’s work, says a preface,
was just a play of prefaces – I’ll tell you something about a book I once read from
cover to cover called O: Violet Horses
Today – as I reclined on a velvet chaise longue – savouring its luscious
bunches of thought proffered by its erudite author – i.e. me, as this is a
preface – sorry no, it was actually quite difficult to read – it was an essay
that did not make a shortlist – a slim volume, The End of Prefaces – ‘scraps of text rearranged in some as-of-yet unforeseen
web of connections’ – I had abandoned myself to it, come snow or storm – my
children asleep while I sweated under lamplight – the moon as overcast as a
sable grape – unopened bills piling up like stacks of crumpled handkerchiefs –
some reviewers called it ‘dirge-like’ – I must say now, I am ashamed of it –
should have spent the time instead making thick, nourishing soups like the
truth – I can tell you now exactly a summary of what it contained – a story – a
sad and long story – about a girl who was at another child’s birthday party –
she saw a magician pour flour and currants into a velvet hat – he tapped it
with a magician’s wand, and out came a real cake – well, who wouldn’t be amazed
by that – the girl wasn’t interested, in the party – she just wanted to eat the
cake – but the cake had disappeared – she went home and wrote a story in
felt-tip, Ghost Buffet – and at the
end, of course – The End in
optimistic, curly letters – ‘a string of desultory assertions’ – then she
thought better of it – put this page under running water – in the bathroom sink
– that itself reached out like a tail – some call it a vine – tell me – what it
is reaching towards –
Lucy Mercer