Always winter and never Christmas! It echoes in my wind-swept ears after a walk in the woods. Yes, I have been to Narnia: deprived of its summery dryads and naiads, but teeming with tale-telling trees and other creatures at Her service. It has all been so real I wouldn’t take a look around in fear of spotting the lamppost and having to get back. I guess Gaiman (whom I am not particularly fond of usually) was kind of right in his preface to M is for Magic: one reads to store it all dormant in the back of the brain. And the moment it kicks in is always one of ultimate, almost perverse pleasure.
I took my camera with to capture the invaluable impression of actually being in a book. How inconsiderate, huh? How can a piece of (useful and exciting, but still) junk serve such a noble purpose? The only kind of feeling it can evoke is the objective correlative based on appearances. It objectifies in a Maloryan (feel free to spell check me on this one) kind of way, by imitating what’s natural and unromanticizing what should be left hopelessly romantic. In the case of photography, the exact opposite is the dragon chased by many a challenger. It's about making prose into poetry, snapshooting. Not the other, cruder way around.
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