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An American sublime is not a metaphysical concept: it’s an honest perception of movement, color, beauty: a reworking of autumn finally into frost, of simplicity into an assertive, fluent truth. The inevitable grace of separation and freedom pours out of the air every time you look at it closely (where there’s still a crack in everything that love has made): nature is non-Euclidean when you map it out in the absolute terms of human existentiality. What I’m trying to say is that we are breathing, alive, moral, earnest, sincere, and real. That we correspond to the motion that sweeps through a Bachian fugue or a Beethoven sonata: that biological machinery is only one interpretation of what an in nite deductiveness will yield. That our summers force light to escape from underground. That no one is who they want to be, that no one is going anywhere, o’ my weary.
