A child's first late April snow, swept around trees and settled, melting over new spring color, over new buds and exploded ground, firm shoots, and the earliest petals of spring. An affront, that's how it must feel to her. She yelled at her mother as she ran from the family van.
"I hate snow," she shouted.
"No," she responded to some inaudible question inside the van, and raced off to school, to some teacher she loved; a teacher to understand her.
Needless pedantry, all the critic has to show for his breathless search for weakness in the text, for the story culminates in a beautiful likeness, and even then he wont require a text to kill him with some likeness to reality, and the immediate memory entrenches him in further pursuit of critical analysis. Quickness leaves him short of breath, and a design does not require our memory of itself but of its speed, and short of breath he plods through this breathlessness criticizing the text for its inapproachability. You are like a dead child we have known since their birth, overwhelming in their death so that we lose all memory of spring's warmth in the late April snow. He remains a confounded being.
Conor Robin Madigan