An Account

Tomas Unger | 87 Those years as if an impossible director showed the script to no one— There was only the given line to go on, to act. And then not even— Count your paces, he’d say; this many this way; that way, that many; then stand still; go on into stillness. In the famous scenes expressing yearning, unspeakable pity or fear, there was so little in my head, so rarely was I conscious of any feeling. Looking back, it seems the mind knows as little as the body what it acts out, all the dramas of consciousness fixed so fully in memory. There you are on some screen. There was so little in me in those years. So what is that gaze taking in distances, this contemplation recovering pain. poetry An Account Tomas Unger ...