Conversation about Coppola's Conversation or "Thinking about the End"
I can see two paragraphs ahead where it ends. It will be finished save for the mistakes, but they are little and right now they don’t mean much to me. When I finish they will be all that I have. And I will have to see them in the distance like I see these last two paragraphs.
I know how I will offer a reading of a key scene that recounts my argument instead of providing a definitive conclusion. I can see how I will essentially offer a re-reading of my own paper. It will serve as a mimesis; a copy of a thing that copies, that borrows and mimics.
In the distance this whole thing bothers me; the whole finished thing, bothers me. I can wait four more days, mixing this end (the way Harry, by looking into the lens of the security camera, stares through the screen at us, the viewers) with Latimer. Who is Latimer, who is Latimer?
There are two paragraphs, maybe three, and then the revision. Right now there is no difference; re-working and the new. The new is just a re-working anyway (what am I talking about?) and the revision is the only real new.
They are not like mountains in the distance. They are, of course, just paragraphs, but there is a glare like the sun behind them. I hate looking, but I can not help myself. I don’t want it to end.
I know how I will offer a reading of a key scene that recounts my argument instead of providing a definitive conclusion. I can see how I will essentially offer a re-reading of my own paper. It will serve as a mimesis; a copy of a thing that copies, that borrows and mimics.
In the distance this whole thing bothers me; the whole finished thing, bothers me. I can wait four more days, mixing this end (the way Harry, by looking into the lens of the security camera, stares through the screen at us, the viewers) with Latimer. Who is Latimer, who is Latimer?
There are two paragraphs, maybe three, and then the revision. Right now there is no difference; re-working and the new. The new is just a re-working anyway (what am I talking about?) and the revision is the only real new.
They are not like mountains in the distance. They are, of course, just paragraphs, but there is a glare like the sun behind them. I hate looking, but I can not help myself. I don’t want it to end.