One day, he says, and this is his hope, his hope against hope, I'm going to surprise everyone with my salmon-leap, W. says. One day, catching everyone unawares, there will be my great leap upstream -my leap, flashing the light back from my scales, my sunshine-touched leap against the current of my own idiocy: that's what he believes, somehow or other. He still believes it; still sees it: up and above the foaming water. Up and forming a great flashing arc …
And where will I be going? In the opposite direction to my dissoluteness and squalor. In the opposite direction to my compromise and half-measures. And where will he be -he, W.? Leaping with me, he says. Leaping, his arching interlinked with my own.
Lars Iyer's Blog 