Time Will Darken It

William Maxwell turns out to be the writer of the moment (reading desires are so precise sometimes); his carefulness, sense of justice, the way his chapters are born out of and interleave with each other, the distance in time, all this enfolds me, especially lying on the sofa in the new(ish) room with new eye(s), the cat on my feet, asleep, I do not want for anything except the summer I have agreed, for the afternoon, to forget.

Time Will Darken It was published in 1948, set in 1912, in a family house with a fractured couple just before a party, hairline cracks perhaps. Southern cousins come to stay, and a house, a marriage, a child, and myriad other substrates, are stirred to breaking point. The title is a quote from a 17th century painting manual. These sharp colours, sharp emotions, fulsome yet restrained dramas that skirt tragedy, they will darken. As certain books darken, deepen. Others, like one we were given recently and another that was left in the cabin, Francis Bacon's Nanny and Yellowface, will not. Francis Bacon darkens, but not an account of him by a reimagined nanny a hundred years later. I doubt the yellowface rant will darken either, it will simply deliquesce, like a slug under salt.