If Art would only talk it would, at last, reveal itself for what it is, what we all burn to know. As for our certainties, it would fetch a dry yawn then take a minute to sweep them under the rug: certainties time-honored as meaningless as dust under the rug. High time, my dears, to listen up. Finally Art would talk, fill the sky like a mouth, clear its convulsive throat while flashes and crashes erupted as it spoke—a star-shot avalanche of visions in uproar, drowned by the breathy din of soundbites as we strain to hear its august words: "a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z."
From Coming to That by Dorothea Tanning. Copyright © 2011 by Dorothea Tanning. Used with permission of Graywolf Press. All rights reserved.