Pulp Fiction: Making Paper
Pulp Fiction Thinking a little too deeply about the act of making paper By Lucy Coleman The surface of the soaked and blended cardboard feels like the inside of someone's cheek. It is grey-brown and minced to a texture which you cannot help but think, if s tewed with some rosemary and oregano, would make a beautiful Bolognese. You run your hand through its uncomfortable softness, and nothing clings to your fingers. Occasionally though, a word appears, floating up from the impenetrable darkness, translucent like the lost wing of a dragonfly. We had diced and added the Waste Land to the pot, being English students. In between the lines, Prufrock had melted, stanza on stanza. It was sacrilegious, yes. Pretentious also. But the shavings of three years' printouts were desperate to reform themselves. Freed from their metric bounds they rejected one another, each finding their own meaning. Over and over from the cloudy water rose 'I begin?' 'I begin?' 'I be...
