The Accuracy of the Imagination

The first essay my student, K., ever wrote for me was about this abandoned greenhouse, which K. had found, he said, in a park, and photographed at sunset, just before autumn became winter and K. himself was forced inside. It was this essay that announced K.'s huge, if voluble talent and made me want to discover if his words had been fanciful or accurate, fiction or truth.

Yesterday, all these months later, I set out with my camera, and there this broke-down creature was, shattered and exquisite as K. had promised, cordoned off but accessible to the eyes and, therefore, to the imagination, and suggesting torrents, seasons, sprung seeds, escape. Accuracy, in this case, could only be pinned to fancy. Both things necessary to broker the truth.