I sat down in the living room and opened the book. Two leaves fell out.
This is one of them. Dried from at least two years ago. It was a habit I had for a time. Still do, although less so.

Here is the nearest passage. This is what I was meant to find tonight.
The storyteller had something to do with this feeling, he was not sure what; but surely it was a feeling that had first come to him from the man; it seemed to be in the command of the man, it seemed called up in him by the man's very presence [...]
[T]he seduction of the storyteller, the surrender of listener to teller, almost in a kind of love-making, of sensual possession [...] A dark new life had started under the command and the hot spell of the stories that boiled like steam, tolled like a bell, sang like a solemn singer's song out of his mouth.
1 comment:
And within the Teller is a core that is Listener, existening on the story and of the story in both a physical and a metaphorical way. A fetus in fetu of meter a new gland of moment and meaning that must exist for the Teller to fully express the story by feeding it to the external, the detached enraptured, Listener.
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