In 1862, Flaubert recalls for the Goncourts the beginnings of his liaison with Louise: “He told us the story of his coupling with Colet, initiated in a drive home in a carriage, painting himself as playing the role of someone disgusted with life, of the dark, handsome stranger, of the suicidal romantic, which so amused…
a clear zither complains far into the night, the moan of wind and rain swirls round in the strings. a solitary lamp, a Ch'u horn heard; a waning moon glides down behind Chang Terrace. already the fragrant grass is withered but still her lover has not come. a letter home cannot be sent for the…
The power of the celestial Lion is broken, his blazing ardor decreasing: after nights of showers of stars the late-summer sun strolls leisurely like the old lion in his cage. It was the female who wanted what might be love's last encore, not he. She pressed against the male's flank, her great, yellow body coyly…
How beautiful the letters are we never get mailed compared to the letters we send and how astonishing the answers: The unexpected words that fall together all by themselves forming perfect solutions to problems we only then discover. For instance, I knew nothing about Venezuela before I began writing these lines and now I've already…
When V. S. Naipaul was a toddler growing up in Trinidad, his grandmother sold marijuana. Only old people bought it, for, during the early 1930s in Trinidad, only the elderly, whose energies were depleted and for whom life had become boring, desired to smoke hemp. Naipaul told this story to his students at Wesleyan University…
Year in, year out, I've ploughed and fished: the gulls have come to depend on me. The steps have grown a thick mat of slate-green moss, Wisteria shoots out lush purple vines. Wind-blown orioles churr from tree to tree, Rain-dampened swallows swoop in and out of the buildings. I didn't realize the spring light was…
trans. Hungarian Bruce Berlind In March we began the longer and longer walks, in populated areas, and what with the diversity of houses and streets we walked out of ourselves the desire to get away, which however would have been only a so-called trip, but we did not dare leave the birds here, then we…
trans. Norwegian Nadia Christensen The railway station has laid its ears to the tracks Every window is open this summer night. The sky And the train. Like a far-away cry . . . Come Crossings. Stratospheric bells. Signal lights coupled to the sunrise. An undertow of rumbling trains cutting gaps in valleys and time ….
. . . A couple of thousand men scattered throughout the great European cities. A few of them are famous; a few write unusually arid, consciously frightening and still peculiarly moving and gripping books; a few, shy and proud, write only letters, which will be found fifty or sixty years later and preserved as moral…
No products in the cart.