Oscar stared past the keys. Used to be that time
rushed down on him when he started to write, time
fell and pressed, then lifted when he finished. Now it
wasn’t lifting. But then he wasn’t finished. There is the
epic and bendable space-time of the theoretical physicist, time detached
from human experience, the pure curve of nature, and there
is the haunted time of the writer, intimate, pressing, stale
and sad. He struck enough keys to make a sentence.
He’d inverted two letters. He elevated the page and whited
out the mistake, then waited for the liquid to dry.
Paraphrases from the novel Mao II by Don DeLillo.