we that were wood
when that wide wood was
in a physical Universe playing with
words
bark be my limbs my hair be leaf
Bride be my bow my lyre my quiver
Now faith is not what we
hereafter have we have a
world resting on nothing
Rest was never more than
abstract since it is empty
reality we cannot escape
God was true everything was
a mother's role in childhood
Someone was in that garden
each knowing the other to be
entirely inasmuch what each
believed or what confessed for
cordial confinement is God's
glory each seed every word
We are all clothed with fleece of sheep I keep saying as if
I were singing as these words do. Throw a shawl over me
so you won't be afraid to sleep. I have already shown that
space is God.
Herman Melville is not comforting. Emily Dickinson isn’t either. Maybe their work is too hungry for comfort, or just too vivid for comfort. But Henry James is – profoundly so. Because he is tender. The tenderness is there in the structure of the sentence. He knows the way the poor and the dead are forgotten by the living, and he cannot allow that to happen. So he keeps on writing for them, for the dead, as if they were children to be sheltered and loved, never abandoned.
Susan HowePagina 1 di 1.
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