Over the years I have developed a distaste for the spectacle of joie de vivre, the knack of knowing how to live. Not that I disapprove of all hearty enjoyment of life. A flushed sense of happiness can overtake a person anywhere, and one is no more to blame for it than the Asiatic flu…
Bell and drum cold, pavilion tower dark, moon shines on the golden well by the ancient pawlonias, deep compound locked, small courtyard empty, fallen flowers pink in the fragrant dew. Misty willows sombre, spring haze light, lamp behind the crystal window in the tall pavilion; quietly rests against…
trans. Portuguese Lisa Sapinkopf That summer we went to the beach at least twice a month. Dad had just bought a bright yellow station-wagon so that we could travel in more comfort, since with my mother, my grandparents, and my little sister Cleonice, there were six of us. Those were happy times. Or at least…
It was merely a house beside a lake which had been rented. It was winterized to extend the period of time it could be let, though it was hard to see who would want its view after summer was over. The view was of places just like it, divided by water. The furnishings consisted of…
I little knew the turbulent time which lay ahead of me when on the telephone my friend Margaret Lane invited me, subject to the consent of the Chinese authorities, to join a little party including herself and her husband for a month's visit to China in April 1957. It was during that deceptively hopeful season…
trans. Swedish Robert Bly We have many shadows. I was walking home one September night when Y. rose from his grave after forty years and joined me on my walk. He seemed blown clean at first except for his name, but his thoughts swam faster than time could run, and they caught up. I fitted…
Last night Laura called and asked if I could stand in for her at Bloomingdale's. Lancôme was doing a promotion, and Laura was supposed to work at the cosmetics counter making up from three to eight. I always do my own make-up, but one ad I did for BMW, they wanted a make-up artist. That's…
trans. Hungarian Jascha Kessler and Maria Körösy You're so brave, you camp-followers of Cain — after Baudelaire, yet! Shit-shoveling first father, your visa was validated when that cretinous cudgel whammed the wandering flock's shepherd, that day-dreaming pastor, the smoke of whose sacrifice could rise up, while yours charred on the ground. Murder — sanctified as…
trans. Danish Alexander Taylor and the author The wine that ripened up along the mountain slopes late that summer we met each other is already golden and full of the aftertaste of an abundance, evaporated like years in the sun and the night breeze looks into me with its poplar leaves: I am tired…
No products in the cart.