ABSTRACT
I don't want realism, I want magic. (Blanch Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire) Whatever lifts the body up-muscles, sinews, joints; whatever wrestles against gravity itself—the raised step, the lifted arm— these form the body's hope. But also hunger, selfishness, desire, all that leads us to put one foot in front of the other, these too form the body's hope, whatever combats that urge to lie down-greed, anger, lust—these feelings keep us going, while the imagination sketches pictures of the desired future, how we will look in that new hat, how we will feel with a belly full of cherries: anything that shoves us from this moment to the next, motivation like a flight of stairs, and hope like a push at the top, not dissatisfaction but eagerness to plunge into the next second (Stephen Dobyns, The Body's Hope, 1990)
