The River

by Peter Heller

What he loved about poetry: it could do in a few seconds what a novel did in days. A painting could be like that, too, and a sculpture. But sometimes you wanted something to take days and days.

“Professor Paulson said alliteration was dangerous if you don’t know how to use it.” “Seems to me you could say that about anything. A frying pan or a car jack.” Wynn thought about it. “Paulson said there was a principle in aesthetics: the more you prettify something, the more you risk undermining its value. Its essential value.” “I don’t know what that means.” Jack tossed a pebble over the edge of the bluff. “Sounds like something a professor likes to say. I guess he means like plants that put all their energy into brilliant flowers and not the roots.” “I guess.” “So what if the value is already there? A strong and beautiful woman puts on makeup. So what?” “Maybe if she puts on too much she could look cheap.” “But she’s not cheap, is she? She’s still who she is.”

On their trip so far berry-picking had been the best respite. Maybe the most fun thing they did. Because, unlike with fishing, they had zero ego involved, zero ambition. They hadn’t grown up thinking, I’m going to be the best berry-picker ever, whereas with fishing and even canoeing they thought that. Berry-picking was like throwing a Frisbee around, or taking a walk up the orchard road, or jumping into the lake and then lying on the sun-warmed stones. It was an achievement-free zone, which Wynn was coming to realize is where most of his joy happened. Making constructions on the riverbank was the same.