Bokelskere.no

'Do you know what a poem is, Esther?'
'No, what?' I would say.
'A piece of dust.'
Then, just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So
are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing.
They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem last a whole lot
longer than a hundred of those people put together.'
And of course Buddy wouldn't have any answer to that, because what I
said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I
couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing
poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they
were unhappy or sick or couldn't sleep.