Lanny

by Max Porter

The type of person who is that little bit more akin to the weather than most people, more obviously made of the same atoms as the earth than most people these days seem to be. Which explains Lanny.

Such burdens are always hers.

We are little arrogant flashes in a grand magnificent scheme.

Dinners where nobody speaks for a while, where we talk about books we’ve read, and someone falls asleep and it’s not weird or eccentric, it’s just slow and kind, unhurried and accepting. Acceptance is a fascination of mine.

Which do you think is more patient, an idea or a hope?

He’s come right back at me with a story about forests knowing if a person’s good or bad. A decent human they’ll keep alive, guiding them to water and food. A bad person they’ll kill in a day, all forces of the forest united against the impure imposter.

He thinks our souls split off and wander around for a bit, seeing things properly. He thinks we see for the first time how things really work, how close we are to plants, how everything is connected, and we get it, finally, but only for a second. We see shapes and patterns and it’s incredibly beautiful like the best art ever, with maths and science and music and feelings all at once, the whole of everything. And then we just dissolve and become air.

I am not brave, I do not fight, have never fought, I work in asset management and only fight in subtle ways on Microsoft Outlook. I’m terrified.

everything labelled, everything loved.

None of us actually feel anything for anyone else. It’s all pretend.