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Reflections of a working writer and reader

 

 

Out Stealing Timber III

There is an anxious consciousness behind this narrative, because there remains unmentioned the identity of the narrator and his or her involvement with the characters or events in question.

So who am I?

Am I perhaps, she? The one with the smile. Or he, the ex-partner?

Am I the daughter, or a friend or witness to these events, whose personal identity is unimportant?

Or is the answer deeper? Am I an anonymous author pretending to be one of his own characters?

Perhaps I am the one who goes out stealing timber, a more or less participating member of the community, and everyone else mentioned here is a figment of my imagination.

Let us retain that image for a moment and follow the me you believe me to be up into the forest looking for some suitable logs.

From a fairly high clearing I can look back and see the Kure fjord and the track that leads away from the cabin in which I have spent the last months.

Over to my left is Theastuene, a white wooden house with blue window frames and doors. It has a slate roof and a brick chimney. The house nestles beside a track, up against the wooden gate which divides one field from another. The house is empty. I wonder what colour it was back then, when Thea lived here, whether it had a slate roof, and why it inherited her name. What was so momentous in Thea’s relationship with the house that it became known as Thea’s rooms?

Questions. I have, as yet, no answers. Who would I entrust with the narration of this tale? Is there any among the ones I have introduced who could nurse it through to completion?

. . . . . . . . . . to be continued

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