fifty-six: pomegranate seeds.

sunset over manhanttan as seen from park slope. may 2012.

In 2005, I read an article in the New Yorker about the writer Henry Roth. The writer of the article, Jonathan Rosen, wrote of Roth’s struggle with depression, self-loathing and a whole other myriad of issues that had long plagued the writer’s life.

I read the entire article but it was this paragraph below and the final sentence, in particular, that forever resonated with me:

But Roth, despite his own dramatic detour, did not remain in outer darkness. When I visited him, he had shattered the block that had imprisoned him and was on the verge of publishing the first installment of a vast, multivolume work, “Mercy of a Rude Stream.” His hands were warped by rheumatoid arthritis; the very touch of his computer keyboard was excruciating. But he still put in five hours a day, helped by Percocet, beer, a ferocious will, and the ministrations of several young assistants. Roth would not die like a pomegranate, with all his seeds inside.

Neither will I.

I will not die like a pomegranate with all my seeds inside me.

For that reason alone, I love pomegranate seeds for what they represent: words yet unlocked.


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