Garcia Roberts has made a map, here, in and with her language. A language so rendered by body and intellect and loss that I find myself whispering them aloud. Whispering because I both want to know their wisdoms, but am afraid of them—their brazenness and powers of saying. The Reveal is utterly elegiac, blistering, imaginative, urgent—rendered out of reverence for life, but also a quiet daring to wrestle to say something true about loss, grief, and the strange logic of a world seemingly governed by time.
The depth of Garcia Roberts’ work is as brave and elemental as Nietzsche’s radical questioning: what is love? what is creation? what is longing? what is a star? But the force of her voice comes from generosity rather than resistance, an appetite for perceptual splendor in the midst of scarcity, and an utterly unique ability to embody, not simply describe, the spiritual complexity apparent in everyday experience. How could Garcia Roberts have made a “dark night of the soul” as buoyant as this, so full of the ability to make words rise?