Form

How the author came by it, what choices made, the presumptuous task, did the author know of the form before paper flew? The critic surely does, and his hand traces like before the lines of his paper and picks up the pen for the task. A spiraling down would be the course he'd expect from the author, from the heights of heaven in concept to the beautiful weaving of the hedgerow on the ground. The novel must come like this, for it read so. Flaubert's November, how did it come, and wasn't it just as grand as Bovary? Bovary is to the novel as the Greek language is to poetry, smack upon the thing itself and waiting to be executed in a form.

And the form comes.