tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-102827112024-03-28T07:17:15.249-04:00My Own Private Book ClubNot as good as a book - it makes a very poor doorstop.The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.comBlogger5372125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-91244097448802847542024-03-10T12:35:00.000-04:002024-03-10T12:35:38.361-04:00Learning To Move On"I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance. The cloud clears as you enter it. I have learned this, but like everyone, I learned it late." <div>-Beryl Markham (Author of West with the Night)</div>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-47674878944471615342024-03-08T06:47:00.003-05:002024-03-08T06:47:17.840-05:00Transcending: Words on Women and Strength by Kelly Corrigan<p> On International Women’s Day, a repost from 2008,</p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/u_4qwVLqt9Q?si=zIosPCxh0hghwDO5" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-43804400611717612462024-03-03T17:58:00.003-05:002024-03-03T17:58:47.804-05:00Mimesis by Fady JoudahMy daughter<br /><br /> wouldn’t hurt a spider<br /><br />That had nested<br /><br />Between her bicycle handles<br /><br />For two weeks<br /><br />She waited<br /><br />Until it left of its own accord<br /><br /><br /><br />If you tear down the web I said<br /><br />It will simply know<br /><br />This isn’t a place to call home<br /><br />And you’d get to go biking<br /><br /><br /><br />She said that’s how others<br /><br />Become refugees isn’t it?<br /><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56351/mimesis">Poetry Foundation</a> </div>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-73191340363655140482024-03-01T17:38:00.000-05:002024-03-01T17:38:23.082-05:00A Letter from E.B.White<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGlfXCVVHZT-wvpAbASXaf7PTl21-NMKgHVfsdhO8RXVntfXG5d3okE6jNGe0t2Vd6fCwrk8xVg4QNhuHL7F0I4r-XMUmqNqRpABea2JnOrseM9-Mid2_hUeV5q3eVRFPqJFJ_-q8R7Xcyc7GSvH3vFNhMi2l62KauEmahvh-0CpIV7_KZi0v/s661/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="446" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGlfXCVVHZT-wvpAbASXaf7PTl21-NMKgHVfsdhO8RXVntfXG5d3okE6jNGe0t2Vd6fCwrk8xVg4QNhuHL7F0I4r-XMUmqNqRpABea2JnOrseM9-Mid2_hUeV5q3eVRFPqJFJ_-q8R7Xcyc7GSvH3vFNhMi2l62KauEmahvh-0CpIV7_KZi0v/w432-h640/unnamed.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>E. B. White<br />Letter to his editor, Eugene Saxton<br />1st March 1939<br /><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">Herewith an unfinished MS of a book called Stuart Little. It would seem to be for children, but I’m not fussy who reads it. You said you wanted to look at this, so I am presenting it thus in its incomplete state. There are about ten or twelve thousand words so far, roughly.</blockquote><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">You will be shocked and grieved to discover that the principal character in the story has somewhat the attributes and appearance of a mouse. This does not mean that I am either challenging or denying Mr. Disney’s genius. At the risk of seeming a very whimsical fellow indeed, I will have to break down and confess to you that Stuart Little appeared to me in dream, all complete, with his hat, his cane, and his brisk manner. Since he was the only fictional figure ever to honor and disturb my sleep, I was deeply touched, and felt that I was not free to change him into a grasshopper or a wallaby. Luckily he bears no resemblance, either physically or temperamentally, to Mickey. I guess that’s a break for all of us.</blockquote><br /><br />(From <a href="https://substack.com/redirect/c4611ad1-6114-495b-80f3-0c43a2c4e4e0?j=eyJ1IjoiNjQzOGEifQ.E33ZnvVfQyhSQpVwojMg9CVQ_VmL9GlzzbVK4fp6uU4">Letters of E. B. White</a>)The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-503314519747061442024-03-01T04:51:00.000-05:002024-03-01T04:51:11.844-05:00 Twelve Moons - Mary Oliver<p>1</p><p>In March the earth remembers its own name.</p><p>Everywhere the plates of snow are cracking.</p><p>The rivers begin to sing. In the sky</p><p>the winter stars are sliding away; new stars</p><p>appear as, later, small blades of grain</p><p>will shine in the dark fields.</p><p><br /></p><p>And the name of every place</p><p>is joyful.</p><p><br /></p><p>2</p><p>The season of curiosity is everlasting</p><p>and the hour for adventure never ends,</p><p>but tonight</p><p>even the men who walked upon the moon</p><p>are lying content</p><p>by open windows</p><p>where the winds are sweeping over the fields,</p><p>over water,</p><p>over the naked earth,</p><p>into villages, and lonely country houses, and the vast cities</p><p><br /></p><p>3</p><p>because it is spring;</p><p>because once more the moon and the earth are eloping -</p><p>a love match that will bring forth fantastic children</p><p>who will learn to stand, walk, and finally run</p><p> over the surface of earth;</p><p>who will believe, for years,</p><p>that everything is possible.</p><p><br /></p><p>4</p><p>Born of clay,</p><p>how shall a man be holy;</p><p>born of water,</p><p>how shall a man visit the stars;</p><p>born of the seasons,</p><p>how shall a man live forever?</p><p><br /></p><p>5</p><p>Soon</p><p>the child of the red-spotted newt, the eft,</p><p>will enter his life from the tiny egg.</p><p>On his delicate legs</p><p>he will run through the valleys of moss</p><p>down to the leaf mold by the streams,</p><p>where lately white snow lay upon the earth</p><p>like a deep and lustrous blanket</p><p>of moon-fire,</p><p><br /></p><p>6</p><p>and probably</p><p>everything</p><p>is possible.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-33519594609259706572024-02-26T22:31:00.000-05:002024-02-26T22:31:23.677-05:00Pete and Alice in Maine<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD4JTvdR5nTrDaDMDBIE3BYBY81KRkrwLuj8F7jotZos016Hmc0ukRi8pgCLRnQ4ScnUjHynrsFvIR7uB8pll_9890MFXepGotuZH5CN7JL02lhlZjV-vVxtUut4nc0kQwRj6U6w3SOPqInjJhArTXwtIFgn4BaYRdwnaPxek_Xu6PUqW9xMnp/s400/62949050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="267" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD4JTvdR5nTrDaDMDBIE3BYBY81KRkrwLuj8F7jotZos016Hmc0ukRi8pgCLRnQ4ScnUjHynrsFvIR7uB8pll_9890MFXepGotuZH5CN7JL02lhlZjV-vVxtUut4nc0kQwRj6U6w3SOPqInjJhArTXwtIFgn4BaYRdwnaPxek_Xu6PUqW9xMnp/s320/62949050.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>This novel by Caitlin Shetterly takes place in the spring of 2020 at the beginning of the pandemic in New York City. The city was in lockdown with bodies literally piling up. Alice decides that she and her hedge fund manager husband Pete and their two young daughters, Sophie and Iris, would be safer at their vacation property in Maine. When they arrive they find the local population unwelcoming to people from New York who could be carrying the virus. Someone cuts down a couple of their trees to block their driveway and leaves a note telling them that they are unwelcome in the community. We discover that Pete and Alice are having marital problems, the children fight with each other constantly and snarl at their parents. The book provides flashbacks to the early days of Pete and Alice’s relationship when they were younger and very much in love. Then they had the kids and the younger child, Iris, was one of those babies that hardly slept and cried all the time. I had one like that and I can tell you from experience that Shetterly captures the fatigue and frustration that parents of such children feel and the stress it can place on a marriage. Then we discover that there are other issues that are making Alice sad and angry. Pete is a jerk, Alice is a martyr, the kids are badly behaved. I read the book quickly. By the time I reached the end I was bored and tired of this privileged, self absorbed family and was relieved to put the book down.<p></p>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-28829245455654455422024-02-26T19:55:00.000-05:002024-02-26T19:55:43.485-05:00The Wren, The Wren<p><i> </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtoOVv7UToiT7KwA_wNgbWY15mDLatqHbnYrMQsGredHHzh8FoWRkDhnZU9kmu4YtFGo9vneWtRN5yjkJK3yVcFMnsgan6mNeY4OWXYTqZsJjS250nDPWsVxjIWFU0ATVvgP3ay4te_q8xxaYm9qE_ggT9tV-zx34uKEmKRHqM96KsVleTO3/s1000/71W2G2goFkL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="664" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtoOVv7UToiT7KwA_wNgbWY15mDLatqHbnYrMQsGredHHzh8FoWRkDhnZU9kmu4YtFGo9vneWtRN5yjkJK3yVcFMnsgan6mNeY4OWXYTqZsJjS250nDPWsVxjIWFU0ATVvgP3ay4te_q8xxaYm9qE_ggT9tV-zx34uKEmKRHqM96KsVleTO3/s320/71W2G2goFkL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="212" /></a></i></div><i>The Wren, The Wren</i> by Anne Enright is the second inter-generational Irish novel I’ve read this year. The thread that ties three generations of women together is a drunken philandering poet, Phil McDaragh, who is the pride of his countrymen and adored internationally. He abandoned his dying wife, who had been his muse, and his two young daughters, Imelda and Carmel, to seek fame and fortune in America. This desertion happened long before Carmel’s daughter, Nell, was born but has had a negative impact on her as well. Phil is dead but his legacy of emotional traumatization lives on. The story is told from the perspectives of Carmel and Nell with a brief, self-serving interjection from Phil. <p></p><p>Carmel and Nell have a complicated relationship and their relationships with others are just as fraught. Carmel is a single parent by choice, to avoid her own mother’s fate. Carmel does not know how to express her deep love for her daughter and Nell becomes enmeshed in a masochistic relationship which only ends when the abuser abandons her. But in the end Nell appears to be on her way to escaping the chains of her history.</p><p>With this new novel Anne Enright cements her reputation as one of the great living writers.</p>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-54900969108212168662024-02-15T08:06:00.000-05:002024-02-15T08:06:41.529-05:00Gwendolyn Brooks reads We Real Cool <blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oaVfLwZ6jes?si=iTcgzUVbq71EzNdf" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></blockquote><div><br /></div>via <a href="https://3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/2024/02/gwendolyn-brooks-reads-we-real-cool.html">3 Quarks Daily</a>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-17425955790359532602024-02-03T08:33:00.002-05:002024-02-03T08:33:30.093-05:00A Poem by Steve Bellin-Oka<br /><b>Packing the Kitchen Utensils</b><br /><br />How many years since we used<br />the potato masher, the apple peeler,<br />its stainless-steel blade and crank<br />tucked in the back of the bottom<br />kitchen drawer among the balled<br />clot of discarded rubber bands?<br />And the egg slicer, never touched,<br />its grille and clean wires taut<br />as the silver foil outlines<br />of the invitations we mailed out<br />years ago? We bought these<br />utensils ourselves: hardly anyone<br />came to a gay wedding back then.<br />Which of you is the bride? someone<br />scrawled beneath the box checked<br />“decline.” At least they answered,<br />you said. Husband, I lift two nesting<br />spoons from the cutlery drawer,<br />wrap them in a grocery circular.<br />Though their silver oval faces<br />are tarnished with wear, on the handles<br />you can still make out the brand,<br />the words Lifetime Guarantee.<br /><br /><br />by <a href="https://www.splitthisrock.org/poetry-database/search/search&poem_author_text-exact=Steve%20Bellin-Oka">Steve Bellin-Oka</a><br />from <a href="https://www.splitthisrock.org/poetry-database/poem/dear-hermano">Split This Rock</a><a href="https://3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/2024/02/saturday-poem-381.html"> </a><div>via <a href="https://3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/2024/02/saturday-poem-381.html">3 Quarks Daily</a> </div>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-11273891702132916042024-02-02T07:43:00.000-05:002024-02-02T07:43:23.108-05:00 A Plug For Frank Bruni’s Love Of SentencesFrank Bruni is a contributing opinion editor at The New York Times and every Thursday my day is immediately made brighter when I receive his<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/02/01/opinion/trump-vivek-ramaswamy-vice-president.html"> newsletter </a>in my inbox. The <i>Love Of Sentences</i> portion of the column is always a special treat. Bruni invites readers to submit favourite lines which he shares with us. Like this one:<p></p><blockquote>In his newsletter The Loaf, Tim Kreider rued the self-trivialization of onetime titans. “I saw Hunter S. Thompson — once an important writer to me — speak after he’d become a professional Hunter S. Thompson impersonator: He sat onstage holding boozily forth drinking Chivas Regal and whacking things with a rubber squeak-toy mallet,” he wrote. “It was like seeing an animal that once could’ve skwapped your head off with one paw dressed in a tutu and riding a unicycle.” (Barbara K. Lane, Kings Park, N.Y.)</blockquote><p></p><p>You can <a href="https://nl.nytimes.com/f/a/TFDMAM7FV9SlrUPFEqQwYg~~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnnlNaP0TGaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vbmV3c2xldHRlcnMvZnJhbmstYnJ1bmk_Y2FtcGFpZ25faWQ9OTMmZW1jPWVkaXRfZmJfMjAyNDAyMDEmaW5zdGFuY2VfaWQ9MTE0MDU2Jm5sPWZyYW5rLWJydW5pJnJlZ2lfaWQ9NjI0ODI5MTgmc2VnbWVudF9pZD0xNTcwMTgmdGU9MSZ1c2VyX2lkPTAzMjQ0ODZkZjkwOTc5OWRiOTQzYzU3N2FlNWNlMmJjVwNueXRCCmW6Ws67ZXCypw9SGW1hcmlseW4uYmVsbGFteUBnbWFpbC5jb21YBAAAAAM~">sign up here</a>. </p>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-45017897220667692302024-01-31T08:14:00.002-05:002024-01-31T08:14:37.466-05:00My Doggy Ate My Essay<div><div>My doggy ate my essay.</div><div>He picked up all my mail.</div><div>He cleaned my dirty closet</div><div>and dusted with his tail.</div><div><br /></div><div>He straightened out my posters</div><div>and swept my wooden floor.</div><div>My parents almost fainted</div><div>when he fixed my bedroom door.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did not try to stop him.</div><div>He made my windows shine.</div><div>My room looked like a palace,</div><div>and my dresser smelled like pine.</div><div><br /></div><div>He fluffed up every pillow.</div><div>He folded all my clothes.</div><div>He even cleaned my fish tank</div><div>with a toothbrush and a hose.</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought it was amazing</div><div>to see him use a broom.</div><div>I’m glad he ate my essay</div><div>on “How to Clean My Room.</div><div><br /></div><div>– Darren Sardelli</div></div><div><br /></div>via <a href="https://www.swiss-miss.com/2024/01/my-doggy-ate-my-essay.html">swissmiss </a>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-33978097087962648672024-01-27T21:54:00.001-05:002024-01-27T21:54:13.947-05:00The Bee Sting<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguccLw9HsQOqT1ysHwGcgn_9yMr1gqOEzR1TY9ccd_6-TWozIPYyj4_ZWmH8GL2mtXsK7peboEU9KKgeiV4eRvs2jNpuUKEWzHnjb-hCDFtAezR12FzTsMIwdUfWITn7i9R_87t1erMMOIaC_oyBIipSDugPQEfx2ckrSJusg7cjmYcQpjfgwA/s400/62039166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="261" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguccLw9HsQOqT1ysHwGcgn_9yMr1gqOEzR1TY9ccd_6-TWozIPYyj4_ZWmH8GL2mtXsK7peboEU9KKgeiV4eRvs2jNpuUKEWzHnjb-hCDFtAezR12FzTsMIwdUfWITn7i9R_87t1erMMOIaC_oyBIipSDugPQEfx2ckrSJusg7cjmYcQpjfgwA/s320/62039166.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>This novel by Paul Murray tells the story of a well to do family in a small town in Ireland who have fallen on rough times when the car dealership that has been their source of wealth starts losing money during the recession. The family consists of Dickie Barnes who runs the business, his beautiful wife Imelda, their daughter Cassie who is awaiting her acceptance to Trinity College and their 12-year-old son who is bewildered by the acrimony engulfing his family. It’s a long novel that takes an eternity to unfold with frequent flashbacks. None of the characters are what they initially appear to be and new characters are introduced at regular intervals to make things even more confusing. No one is happy. Everyone is scared. People do things they regret. The last part of the book builds slowly to what we are sure will be a conflagration. I enjoyed many parts of the story but, at 700 pages, <i>The Bee Sting</i> was too long and I found the ending to be unsatisfactory.<p></p><p>(This book was shortlisted for the 2023 Booker Prize) </p>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-56207072210113583212024-01-23T22:42:00.002-05:002024-01-23T22:42:30.526-05:00Two-Headed Calf by Laura Gilpin<div><div>Tomorrow when the farm boys find this</div><div>freak of nature, they will wrap his body</div><div>in newspaper and carry him to the museum.</div><div>But tonight he is alive and in the north</div><div>field with his mother. It is a perfect</div><div>summer evening: the moon rising over</div><div>the orchard, the wind in the grass. And</div><div>as he stares into the sky, there are</div><div>twice as many stars as usual.</div></div><div><br /></div>via <a href="https://www.perfectforroquefortcheese.org/2024/01/and-there-are-twice-as-many-stars-as.html">perfect for roquefort cheese</a>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-89542057780497230702024-01-23T22:08:00.001-05:002024-01-23T22:08:51.339-05:00Bears Discover Fire - A Short Story By Terry Bisson<div><div><br /></div><div>I was driving with my brother, the preacher, and my nephew, the preacher’s son, on I-65 just north of Bowling Green when we got a flat. It was Sunday night and we had been to visit Mother at the Home. We were in my car. The flat caused what you might call knowing groans since, as the old-fashioned one in my family (so they tell me), I fix my own tires, and my brother is always telling me to get radials and quit buying old tires.</div><div><br /></div><div>But if you know how to mount and fix tires yourself, you can pick them up for almost nothing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since it was a left rear tire, I pulled over to the left, onto the median grass. The way my Caddy stumbled to a stop, I figured the tire was ruined. “I guess there’s no need asking if you have any of that FlatFix in the trunk,” said Wallace.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Here, son, hold the light,” I said to Wallace Jr. He’s old enough to want to help and not old enough (yet) to think he knows it all. If I’d married and had kids, he’s the kind I’d have wanted.</div><div><br /></div><div>An old Caddy has a big trunk that tends to fill up like a shed. Mine’s a ’56. Wallace was wearing his Sunday shirt, so he didn’t offer to help while I pulled magazines, fishing tackle, a wooden tool box, some old clothes, a come-along wrapped in a grass sack, and a tobacco sprayer out of the way, looking for my jack. The spare looked a little soft.</div><div><br /></div><div>The light went out. “Shake it, son,” I said.</div><div><br /></div><div>It went back on. The bumper jack was long gone, but I carry a little 1/4-ton hydraulic. I found it under Mother’s old Southern Livings, 1978-1986. I had been meaning to drop them at the dump. If Wallace hadn’t been along, I’d have let Wallace Jr. position the jack under the axle, but I got on my knees and did it myself. There’s nothing wrong with a boy learning to change a tire. Even if you’re not going to fix and mount them, you’re still going to have to change a few in this life. The light went off again before I had the wheel off the ground. I was surprised at how dark the night was already. It was late October and beginning to get cool. “Shake it again, son,” I said.</div><div><br /></div><div>It went back on but it was weak. Flickery.</div><div><br /></div><div>“With radials you just don’t have flats,” Wallace explained in that voice he uses when he’s talking to a number of people at once; in this case, Wallace Jr. and myself. “And even when you do, you just squirt them with this stuff called FlatFix and you just drive on. $3.95 the can.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Uncle Bobby can fix a tire hisself,” said Wallace Jr., out of loyalty I presume.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Himself,” I said from halfway under the car. If it was up to Wallace, the boy would talk like what Mother used to call “a helot from the gorges of the mountains.” But drive on radials.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Shake that light again,” I said. It was about gone. I spun the lugs off into the hubcap and pulled the wheel. The tire had blown out along the sidewall. “Won’t be fixing this one,” I said. Not that I cared. I have a pile as tall as a man out by the barn.</div><div><br /></div><div>The light went out again, then came back better than ever as I was fitting the spare over the lugs. “Much better,” I said. There was a flood of dim orange flickery light. But when I turned to find the lug nuts, I was surprised to see that the flashlight the boy was holding was dead. The light was coming from two bears at the edge of the trees, holding torches. They were big, three hundred pounders, standing about five feet tall. Wallace Jr. and his father had seen them and were standing perfectly still. It’s best not to alarm bears.</div><div><br /></div><div>I fished the lug nuts out of the hubcap and spun them on. I usually like to put a little oil on them, but this time I let it go. I reached under the car and let the jack down and pulled it out. I was relieved to see that the spare was high enough to drive on. I put the jack and the lug wrench and the flat into the trunk. Instead of replacing the hubcap, I put it in there too. All this time, the bears never made a move. They just held the torches, whether out of curiosity or helpfulness, there was no way of knowing. It looked like there may have been more bears behind them, in the trees.</div><div><br /></div><div>Opening three doors at once, we got into the car and drove off. Wallace was the first to speak. “Looks like bears have discovered fire,” he said.</div></div><div><br /></div>Read more: <a href="https://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/bears-discover-fire/"> Lightspeed Magazine</a> <div><br /></div>© 1990 by Terry Bisson. Originally published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine.<div><br /></div><div>(via <a href="http://www.thingsmagazine.net/spinning-around-2/">Things Magazine</a>)</div>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-25766460803424833372024-01-17T17:16:00.003-05:002024-01-17T17:16:31.168-05:00Letter written on this day<br />Snow means such special things to me. It means a fat soft plop, plop, as it is shovelled off the roofs and falls into the courtyard below. It means the strange melancholy halloo by which the deer are called to be fed, and which brings them bounding from all corners of the park. It means these things in an intimate way, like the ticking of the clock in one's own room means something; and is part of one.<br /><br />Vita Sackville-West<br />Letter to Virginia Woolf<br />17th January 1926<br /><br />(From <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Letters-Vita-Sackville-West-Virginia-Woolf/dp/1853815055">The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf</a>)The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-85404467810210973202024-01-17T06:44:00.000-05:002024-01-17T06:44:58.874-05:00Reverse Gentrification<div><div>If the law didn’t apply to me</div><div>I would squat in an upper income</div><div>suburb in SoCal the same way</div><div>Europeans squatted on land not their own.</div><div>And after stealing a home</div><div>not my own I would bulldoze the entire block to the ground.</div><div>Put up a 10-story apartment complex.</div><div>Siphon water and electricity</div><div>from the entire neighborhood</div><div>watching pools go empty,</div><div>and gardens wilt.</div><div><br /></div><div>I would leave them with no choice,</div><div>but to move out or rent from me</div><div>at a cost equal to half or more</div><div>than the average family’s monthly income</div><div>while never fixing sewage, or power.</div><div>I would,</div><div>call the cops on all of them,</div><div>for walking their dogs at 11 PM,</div><div>for jogging in the middle of the street,</div><div>and for wearing yoga pants at 2 pm on a Wednesday afternoon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happily,</div><div>to boost the local economy,</div><div>I would open a pawn shop,</div><div>Paycheck loan management center</div><div>and liquor store.</div><div>While I’m at it,</div><div>I could get a 1980’s CIA connection,</div><div>traffic drugs on the block,</div><div>hand some nickels and dimes</div><div>and a glock.</div><div>Give them different colored bandanas.</div><div>Sit back and watch them tear each other apart.</div><div>Use the profit to fund an illegal war in some foreign country</div><div>and then call the cops on which ever group gets too big.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I would never do this,</div><div>because it’s already been done to us.</div><div><br /></div><div>by Ramon Jimenez</div><div>from <a href="https://decompjournal.com/i4-p1">Decomp Journal</a></div></div><div><br /></div>(<a href="https://3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/2024/01/tuesday-poem-388.html">3 Quarks Daily</a>)The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-44916113882805761072024-01-14T15:20:00.002-05:002024-01-14T15:20:58.005-05:00The House-Dog’s Grave<div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve changed my ways a little: I cannot now</div><div>Run with you in the evenings along the shore,</div><div>Except in a kind of dream: and you, if you dream a moment,</div><div>You see me there.</div><div><br /></div><div>So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door</div><div>Where I used to scratch to go out or in,</div><div>And you’d soon open; leave on the kitchen floor</div><div>The marks of my drinking-pan.</div><div><br /></div><div>I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do</div><div>On the warm stone,</div><div>Nor at the foot of your bed: no, all the nights through</div><div>I lie alone.</div><div><br /></div><div>But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet</div><div>Outside your window where firelight so often plays,</div><div>And where you sit to read — and I fear often grieving for me —</div><div>Every night your lamplight lies on my place.</div><div><br /></div><div>You, man and woman, live so long it is hard</div><div>To think of you ever dying.</div><div>A little dog would get tired living so long.</div><div>I hope than when you are lying</div><div><br /></div><div>Under the ground like me your lives will appear</div><div>As good and joyful as mine.</div><div>No, dears, that’s too much hope: you are not so well cared for</div><div>As I have been,</div><div><br /></div><div>And never have known the passionate undivided</div><div>Fidelities that I knew.</div><div>Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided. …</div><div>But to me you were true.</div><div><br /></div><div>You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.</div><div>I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures</div><div>To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,</div><div>I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.</div><div><br /></div><div>— Robinson Jeffers</div></div><div><br /></div>(<a href="https://www.futilitycloset.com/">Futility Closet</a>)The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-21982060570894722052024-01-12T08:14:00.000-05:002024-01-12T08:14:43.059-05:00Ayana - a short story by Stephen King<div><div>I didn’t think I would ever tell this story. My wife told me not to; she said no one would believe it and I’d only embarrass myself. What she meant, of course, was that it would embarrass her. “What about Ralph and Trudy?” I asked her. “They were there. They saw it, too.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Trudy will tell him to keep his mouth shut,” Ruth said, “and your brother won’t need much persuading.”</div><div><br /></div><div>This was probably true. Ralph was at that time Superintendent of Schools in New Hampshire Administrative District 43, and the last thing a Department of Education bureaucrat from a small state wants is to wind up on one of the cable news outlets, in the end-of-hour slot reserved for UFOs over Phoenix and coyotes that can count to ten. Besides, a miracle story isn’t much good without a miracle worker, and Ayana was gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now my wife is dead—she had a heart attack while flying to Colorado to help out with our first grandchild, and died almost instantly. (Or so the airline people said, but you can’t even trust them with your luggage these days.) My brother Ralph is also dead—a stroke while playing in a Golden Ager golf tournament—and Trudy is ga-ga. My father is long gone, of course; if he were still alive, he’d be a centenarian. I’m the last one standing, so I’ll tell the story. It is unbelievable, Ruth was right about that, and it means nothing in any case—miracles never do, except to those lucky lunatics who see them everywhere. But it’s interesting. And it is true. We all saw it.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>My father was dying of pancreatic cancer. I think you can tell a lot about people by listening to how they speak about that sort of situation (and the fact that I describe “cancer” as “that sort of situation” probably tells you something about your narrator, who spent his life teaching English to boys and girls whose most serious health problems were acne and sports injuries).</div><div><br /></div><div>Ralph said, “He’s nearly finished his journey.”</div><div><br /></div><div>My sister-in-law Trudy said, “He’s rife with it.” (At first I thought she said “He’s ripe with it,” which struck me as jarringly poetic. I knew it couldn’t be right, not from her, but I wanted it to be right.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Ruth said, “He’s down for the count.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I didn’t say “And may he stay down,” but I thought it. Because he suffered. This was twenty-five years ago—1982—and suffering was still an accepted part of end-stage cancer. I remember reading ten or twelve years later that most cancer patients go out silently only because they’re too weak to scream. That brought back memories of my father’s sickroom so strong that I went into the bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet bowl, sure I was going to vomit.</div><div><br /></div><div>But my father actually died four years later, in 1986. He was in assisted living then, and it wasn’t pancreatic cancer that got him, after all. He choked to death on a piece of steak.</div></div><div><br /></div>Read More: <a href="https://www.theparisreview.org/fiction/5795/ayana-stephen-king">Paris Review </a><div><br /></div><div>Via <a href="https://webcurios.co.uk/webcurios-12-01-24/">Webcurios</a><br /><div><br /></div></div>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-53497750387218968042024-01-05T07:46:00.000-05:002024-01-05T07:46:36.573-05:00The Forgotten River - an excerpt<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiagto89YuBqTAWJt8Y4MdXiehB-bBl2hvTSjaHurI1c3WSz2hJcepsxarb2TUYI86lq441DJJ5MBaTQmClBGdpa7GTX23rUnvQzWy3SkOwhoU10ueGiyq2EHKeR5JAPmSV8fHeGDqRiZi69otF7OKR3C5M8aSAXSVHrScW36ZOL3Ba5IXNXKJl/s1099/https___dev.lareviewofbooks.org_wp-content_uploads_2013_07_1353171642.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1099" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiagto89YuBqTAWJt8Y4MdXiehB-bBl2hvTSjaHurI1c3WSz2hJcepsxarb2TUYI86lq441DJJ5MBaTQmClBGdpa7GTX23rUnvQzWy3SkOwhoU10ueGiyq2EHKeR5JAPmSV8fHeGDqRiZi69otF7OKR3C5M8aSAXSVHrScW36ZOL3Ba5IXNXKJl/w436-h640/https___dev.lareviewofbooks.org_wp-content_uploads_2013_07_1353171642.jpg" width="436" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p><i>The Forgotten River</i> is a rare piece of nonfiction prose about his native Arkansas by Charles Portis. </p><blockquote>“There were two vessels, the Ouachita and the City of Camden, and they ran on about a two-week cycle—New Orleans-Camden-New Orleans, with stops along the way. The round-trip fare, including a bed and all meals, was $50. Traditional steamboat decorum was imposed, with the men required to wear coats in the dining room. At night, after supper was cleared, the waiters doubled as musicians for a dance. </blockquote><blockquote>It was Dee Brown of Little Rock, the author of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, who told me about this, and how as a teen-aged boy in the late 1920s he took the Ouachita from New Orleans to Camden. He had a summer job at a filling station between Stephens and Camden, and had often watched the steamer tie up and unload. “‘I’ve got to ride that boat,’ I kept telling myself.” He saved up a bit more than $50 for the adventure—“an enormous sum in those days”—but then thought better of this extravagance. He would keep half of it back. “So I made a reservation for the other end and hitch-hiked down to New Orleans. Hitch-hiking was easy and safe then, and faster than the boat.”<br /><br />His timing was good, which kept expenses down. He paid a dollar for a night’s lodging at a boarding house near the French Quarter. The trip back was a delight, as Mr. Brown remembers, a leisurely voyage of five or six days. He got full value for his $25. The big splashing wheel pushed the steamer up the Mississippi, the Red, the Black, and at last into the Ouachita at Jonesville, with the two walls of the forest closing in a bit more day by day.<br /><br />There were fine breakfasts of ham and eggs, when ham was real ham, with grits and hot biscuits. At lunch one day he found a split avocado on his plate, or “alligator pear,” as it was called on the menu. “I had never seen one before. I wouldn’t eat it.” Young Mr. Brown was traveling light and so had to borrow a coat from a waiter at each meal before he could be seated. He had a tiny sleeping cabin to himself with a bunk bed and a single hook on the wall for his wardrobe.<br /><br />He enjoyed the nightly dances, though he had to sit them out as a wallflower because he didn’t know how to dance. Townsfolk along the way came on board just for the dance, and among them were young Delta sports sneaking drinks of corn whiskey and ginger jake. These were Prohibition days. A young girl from New Orleans, traveling with her family, offered to teach Dee Brown how to dance. “I wanted to dance with her, too, sure, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.” This family, he recalls, who had never seen any high ground, marveled over the puny hillocks of the upper river. He remembers an Arkansas woman vowing never again to eat sugar, after seeing the deckhands, dripping with sweat, taking naps on the deck-loaded sacks of sugar.”</blockquote><br /><i>The Forgotten River</i> by Charles Portis. Collected in <i>Escape Velocity</i>. This story appeared in the September 1991 issue of the Arkansas Times. <div><br /></div><div>(<a href="https://biblioklept.org/2024/01/04/it-was-dee-brown-of-little-rock-the-author-of-bury-my-heart-at-wounded-knee-charles-portis/">Biblioklept</a>)<br /></div>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-75555010680875844202024-01-05T06:45:00.001-05:002024-01-05T06:49:06.943-05:00WONDROUS BY SARAH FRELIGH<p><br /></p>I’m driving home from school when the radio talk<br />turns to E.B. White, his birthday, and I exit<br />the here and now of the freeway at rush hour,<br /><br />travel back into the past, where my mother is reading<br />to my sister and me the part about Charlotte laying her eggs<br />and dying, and though this is the fifth time Charlotte has died, my mother is crying again, and we’re laughing<br />at her because we know nothing of loss and its sad math,<br />how every subtraction is exponential, how each grief<br /><br />multiplies the one preceding it, how the author tried<br />seventeen times to record the words <i>She died alone</i><br />without crying, seventeen takes and a short walk during<br /><br />which he called himself ridiculous, a grown man crying<br />for a spider he’d spun out of the silk thread of invention —<br />wondrous how those words would come back and make<br /><br />him cry, and, yes, wondrous to hear my mother’s voice<br />ten years after the day she died — the catch, the rasp,<br />the gathering up before she could say to us, I’m OK.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://sarahfreligh.com/">Sarah Freligh</a> is a poet and fiction writer based in Rochester, NY. She is the author of six books of poetry and short fiction, including <i>Sad Math</i>, winner of the 2014 Moon City Press Poetry Prize and the 2015 Whirling Prize from the University of Indianapolis, and <i>A Brief Natural History of Women</i>, from Harbor Editions.The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-84982639272799841392024-01-04T08:35:00.000-05:002024-01-04T08:35:11.726-05:00Nonfiction: A Novel<p><i>Nonfiction: A Novel </i>is an unflinching account of a mother, daughter, wife, and author reckoning with the world around her. But can a writer ever be trusted with the truth of her own story? </p>An excerpt from <a href="https://bookshop.org/a/132/9781959030317">Nonfiction</a> by Julie Myerson:<blockquote>There’s a night—I think this is the middle of June—when we lock you in the house. We don’t want to do it, but—or so we tell each other—we seem to have no choice. In those days we rarely go out, any kind of social activity has begun to seem pointless, but for some reason I no longer remember we don’t want to miss this dinner. So we lock all the doors and leave you with a hammer, so you can smash a window in case of fire. Your father doesn’t think this is necessary, but I think it’s necessary. I don’t want you to die in a fire. Or, I don’t want to have to sit through a dinner party on the other side of town, while all the time worrying that you might die in a fire.<div><br />I know, of course I do, that it makes no sense—to leave you locked in there while still armed with the means of escape. I know it’s entirely possible, given the state of mind you’re in, that you might start a fire just so you can have a reason to smash the window. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve taken such a risk, damaging property or possessions simply in order to get your way. It is, let’s face it, exactly the kind of reckless trick you are capable of pulling back then.<br /><br />But I have to admit that you don’t do that. You make no attempt at all to get out. You microwave the dinner we leave for you and you rinse the plate and put it in the dishwasher and then, after watching something on your laptop, you go up to bed.<br /><br />When we return, the house is silent. Nothing seems to be missing or damaged. No money has been taken. The hammer is exactly where we left it on the table in the hall. You do not appear to have made any attempt to break the glass.</div></blockquote><div></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://lithub.com/nonfiction/">Read more</a></div>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-40784222375208749732024-01-03T05:00:00.001-05:002024-01-03T05:00:00.149-05:00Natural World<div><div>Natural World</div><div><br /></div><div>1.</div><div><br /></div><div>The earth is almost round. The seas</div><div>are curved and hug the earth, both</div><div>ends are crowned with ice.</div><div><br /></div><div>The great Blue Whale swims near</div><div>this ice, his heart is warm</div><div>and weighs two thousand pounds,</div><div>his tongue weighs twice as much;</div><div>he weighs one hundred fifty tons.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are so few of him left</div><div>he often can’t find a mate;</div><div>he drags his six-foot sex</div><div>through icy waters,</div><div>flukes spread crashing.</div><div>His brain is large enough</div><div>for a man to sleep in.</div><div><br /></div><div>2.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Hawk Mountain in Pennsylvania</div><div>thousands upon thousands</div><div>upon thousands of hawks in migration</div><div>have been slaughtered for pleasure.</div><div>Drawn north or south in Spring and Fall:</div><div>Merlin and Kestel, Peregrine, Gyrfalcon,</div><div>Marsh Hawk, Red-tailed, Sharp-tailed,</div><div>Sharp-shinned, Swainson’s Hawk,</div><div>Golden Eagle and Osprey</div><div>slaughtered for pleasure.</div><div><br /></div><div>by Jim Harrison</div><div>from Selected and New Poems</div><div>Delacorte Press, 1982</div></div><div><br /></div>(<a href="https://3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/2023/12/saturday-poem-376.html">3 Quarks Daily</a>)The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-37126528720934550912023-12-31T08:03:00.001-05:002023-12-31T08:03:27.689-05:00Year’s End<div><div>Year’s End </div><div>BY RICHARD WILBUR</div><div><br /></div><div>Now winter downs the dying of the year, </div><div>And night is all a settlement of snow;</div><div>From the soft street the rooms of houses show </div><div>A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere, </div><div>Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin </div><div>And still allows some stirring down within.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake</div><div>The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell </div><div>And held in ice as dancers in a spell </div><div>Fluttered all winter long into a lake; </div><div>Graved on the dark in gestures of descent, </div><div>They seemed their own most perfect monument.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was perfection in the death of ferns </div><div>Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone </div><div>A million years. Great mammoths overthrown </div><div>Composedly have made their long sojourns, </div><div>Like palaces of patience, in the gray</div><div>And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii</div><div><br /></div><div>The little dog lay curled and did not rise </div><div>But slept the deeper as the ashes rose</div><div>And found the people incomplete, and froze </div><div>The random hands, the loose unready eyes </div><div>Of men expecting yet another sun</div><div>To do the shapely thing they had not done.</div><div><br /></div><div>These sudden ends of time must give us pause. </div><div>We fray into the future, rarely wrought</div><div>Save in the tapestries of afterthought.</div><div>More time, more time. Barrages of applause </div><div>Come muffled from a buried radio.</div><div>The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.</div><div><br /></div><div>Richard Wilbur, “Year’s End” from Collected Poems 1943-2004.</div></div><div><br /></div>(<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43052/years-end-56d221b9e6bd8">Poetry Foundation</a>)The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-69701157283463348632023-12-28T05:59:00.000-05:002023-12-28T05:59:25.915-05:00 A Christmas Story Framed by Zubrowka<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQJ3Mw6NrpxjV6V5wMiMqbjXBgKJtIa18pkRzOdyEnnGGn6z-VIM-nP_xR-uBILUv_ruHwGnyss6fqrJNI3BmHQdNzszJh2O3TvqvgdHMDbPP5iByIed0mZ7tiEgBY1_IbjAcHaC91SGirec1JYPVeQlvI-3eWbAQGPufmro2SxsZTZrPqQ8q/s610/Zuborz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="610" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQJ3Mw6NrpxjV6V5wMiMqbjXBgKJtIa18pkRzOdyEnnGGn6z-VIM-nP_xR-uBILUv_ruHwGnyss6fqrJNI3BmHQdNzszJh2O3TvqvgdHMDbPP5iByIed0mZ7tiEgBY1_IbjAcHaC91SGirec1JYPVeQlvI-3eWbAQGPufmro2SxsZTZrPqQ8q/w400-h184/Zuborz.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div><blockquote>“It smells of freshly mown hay and spring flowers, of thyme and lavender, and it is so soft on the palate and so comfortable, it’s like listening to music by moonlight…”</blockquote></div><div style="text-align: center;">Somerset Maugham on Zubrowka</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Listen closely and I will tell you a story. And it will be, without doubt, the best story you will read today and you will carry it with you, close to your heart like a flask of something warming and clear as a forest spring. Yes, some spirits just put me in the spirit to be metaphorical, and this bison grass vodka is one of them.<br /><br />I have a Christmas tradition, and like most of my traditions, it’s a little un-traditional. You see, I collect Christmas ghost stories (and what, you may be asking, does this have to do with the subject matter of a food and beverage blog, and quite right you are but bear with me, the payoff is worth it). Great authors have written great examples of the genre, from Le Fanu to Dickens, from de Maupassant to Damon Runyon, and of these the greatest is a man of whom you have never heard.</div><div><br /></div>Read more: <a href="https://manolofood.com/zubrowka-and-memories/?fbclid=IwAR0eUrcnQASUveellW8HEl2rD2_Z9yykjRTc-2fc5RB057Q90lHVeHrFTgM">Manolo’s Food Blog</a>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10282711.post-57365373655109104972023-12-27T07:44:00.005-05:002023-12-27T07:44:51.393-05:00It’s Boxing Day - Thomas Pynchon<div>A day late. Still good though.</div><div><div></div><blockquote><div>Inside the bowl, the two goldfish are making a Pisces sign, head-to-tail and very still. Penelope sits and peers into their world. There is a little sunken galleon, a china diver in a diving suit, pretty stones and shells she and her sisters have brought back from the sea.</div><div><br /></div><div>Aunt Jessica and Uncle Roger are out in the kitchen, hugging and kissing. Elizabeth is teasing Claire in the hallway. Their mother is in the W.C. Sooty the cat sleeps in a chair, a black thundercloud on the way to something else, who happens right now to look like a cat. It’s Boxing Day. The evening’s very still. The last rocket bomb was an hour ago, somewhere south. Claire got a golliwog, Penelope a sweater, Elizabeth a frock that Penelope will grow into.</div></blockquote><div></div></div><div><br /></div>Read more: <a href="https://biblioklept.org/2023/12/26/its-boxing-day-gravitys-rainbow-2/">Biblioklept</a> <div><br /></div><div>From Thomas Pynchon’s 1973 novel <i>Gravity’s Rainbow</i>.</div>The Naghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06978145047787798267noreply@blogger.com0