We counted the epochs with venerable names, with dry thorns, with dry asphodel — Justinian, Mavrikios, the Androniki Kommini Paleologi, Mr. Manouil with his long worry beads made of thick amber — “Renowned city” they called it; “the cloud-topped stronghold of all that is Greek”; and the three reservoirs opposite the illustrious Sea of Myrtoo…
We only want to count you, boys, to find out who and where you are. We don’t need a draft. We do need to know where we can find you, just for the files. I wouldn’t worry, it would be a lottery, and you are lucky. You might as well go down and sign up…
She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation about her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with gentle violence, forced to return . . . —Northanger Abbey When Henry and his sister Eleanor brought Miss Morland…
Love is the hardest rock and the fragile, brine-drenched ships, love is the other ship of rock, the untraveled, yet thousand-times traveled ship on the highest seas — oh the chafing of patience — with love I fashioned death, with love also my work; I went down — he said — to the town market,…
They are everywhere in the wild lights past the hammering of the dawn, the colors shooting off those sounds, and she can talk to them, she says, “communicate” in the same way distant cousins lean over corpses and say something appropriate but inaccurate. Stars cinder where the jungle ends, at the furthest outskirt of the…
Mr. Larkin’s picture is on the back. Lowell poses on the front of the jacket. Mr. Larkin’s glasses distort his eyes. Lowell doesn’t seem to be wearing his. Mr. Larkin is rather nicely dressed. Lowell’s collar is open, showing chest hair. Mr. Larkin, trying quite hard to smile, asks us, “Did you like my poems…
We’ve read much, we’ve forgotten much. Afterward we unlearned all we had learned — what lead and what gold seals — forgeries, counterfeits, rub outs with a razor blade, a penknife, with gum erasers or a fountain pen; and the new script spreading on the parchment, betraying the usurper of others’ perogatives and titles, the…
The time comes when you count the names — whether Dim or flaming in the head’s dark, or whether In stone cut, time-crumbling or moss-glutted. You count the names to reconstruct yourself. But a face remembered may blur, even as you stare At a headstone. Or sometimes a face, as though from air, Will stare…
Pool tables always reminded me of paintings by Tanguy— objects connected to each other by shadows on an uncertain ground. I would stare down the shaft of light on the stick, distracted by the desire to lie down on the green moss of the table, the desire to treat the balls as gently as eggs…
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