Naught but bone, bone
On the irreducible
Over the last few weeks I’ve been reading the diary I kept when I was 6 and 7, which tantalizingly breaks off just before I discovered a skeleton in my bedroom cupboard.1 Perhaps for this reason my mind has been running on thoughts of bone — but also on the irreducible strangeness of certain experiences (and poems), and the limits of analysis.
My favourit…
