1269 Arts and sciences poems

It is not poetry you fear, but poets, their indelible brand of words. How will your daughter escape the mark men hanged young women for in Salem? I am nothing more than a teacher, like you. See, I have removed my shoes and socks. I am rolling my trousers above my ankles. No cloven hooves. Long feet and toes like you and your beautiful daughter. It is language that has won her over, earth-bound words walking orderly across the page like children holding to the rope attached to your wrist, teacher and students traversing the noisy street at the crosswalk, with the light of your fingers composing the line your children read, each syllable's afterimage trailing your quick passage of hands conducting the boys and girls safely from one curb to the other.

where is the poetry of resistance, the poetry of honorable defiance unafraid of lies from career politicians and business men, not respectful of journalist who write official speak void of educated thought without double search or sub surface questions that war talk demands? where is the poetry of doubt and suspicion not in the service of the state, bishops and priests, not in the service of beautiful people and late night promises, not in the service of influence, incompetence and academic clown talk?

As Whistler heard colors like a stretch of music— long harmonies, violet to amber, double hummings of silver, opal—so, in reverse, these three in their capsule, free falling two hours through the black Atlantic, ears popped, then filled with the music of Bach or Haydn, might fashion a landscape. Low notes bring a prairie perhaps, the sharps a smatter of flowers, as the pip notes of sonar spring back to the screen in little blossoms. They have come for the lost Titanic and find instead, in the splayed beam of a headlamp, silt fields, pale and singluar, like the snow fields of Newfoundland.  On its one runner blade the capsule slides, slips out through drift hummocks, through stones the Ice Age glaciers dropped, its trail the foot-thin trail of a dancer, who plants, glides, at his head the flurry of a ship's chandelier, at his back a cinch-hook of icebergs cast down through the winds of Newfoundland. The music these three absorb stops with the wreckage, with words lipped up through a microphone: flange,windlass,capstan,hull plating, then oddly, syllables at a slant, as light might slant through window slats, stairsteps,doorknob,serving bowl,teacup,Bordeaux. Mechanical fingers, controlled by the strokes of a joy stick, brush over debris, lifting, replacing. In jittery strobe lights, camera lights, all colors ground down to a quiet palette, angles return, corners and spirals pull back to the human eye—as if from some iced and black-washed atmosphere, boiler coal, a footboard and platter, each common shape brightened, briefly held for the sake of retrieval. The current spins silt like a sudden storm. With the intricacy of a body the capsule adjusts, temperature, pressure. Someone coughs, then the three sit waiting, as in Whistler's Sad Sea three are waiting. All around them are dollops of winter wind, everywhere beach and sea. No horizon at all in this painting, just a grey/brown thrum beach to sea. How steady his breath must have been on the canvas, his hands on the brushstrokes of lap robes, of bonnets and beach chairs, the pull of a red umbrella: each simple shape loved and awash in the landscape.

Talent is what they say you have after the novel is published and favorably reviewed. Beforehand what you have is a tedious delusion, a hobby like knitting. Work is what you have done after the play is produced and the audience claps. Before that friends keep asking when you are planning to go out and get a job. Genius is what they know you had after the third volume of remarkable poems. Earlier they accuse you of withdrawing, ask why you don’t have a baby, call you a bum. The reason people want M.F.A.’s, take workshops with fancy names when all you can really learn is a few techniques, typing instructions and some- body else’s mannerisms is that every artist lacks a license to hang on the wall like your optician, your vet proving you may be a clumsy sadist whose fillings fall into the stew but you’re certified a dentist. The real writer is one who really writes. Talent is an invention like phlogiston after the fact of fire. Work is its own cure. You have to like it better than being loved.

in ten Minutes Come back: you will have taught me chiNese (sAtie). shall I retUrn the favor? Give you otHer lessons (Ting!)? Or would you prefer sileNce?

On opening a long unopened book, what odor rises from the parting pages, what genie is released, what dark spell broken, as if some spirit trapped inside for ages, By this hinge swung open were set free? My father’s hand has jotted in the margins its own blunt text of what must be lecture notes, and planted his place marker Like a flag among “The Dry Salvages”— a UC

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations [Florentine painter, 1412-69] I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks, Zooks! word of emphasis, from “Gadzooks”, as in “God’s hooks” – referring to the nails that held Christ to the Cross what's to blame? you think you see a monk! What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, And here you catch me at an alley's end Where sportive sportive amorous in nature, wanton ladies leave their doors ajar? The Carmine's Carmine’s Convent of the Carmine, where Lippi was placed at the age of eight. my cloister: hunt it up, Do,— harry out harry out drive off , if you must show your zeal, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, And nip each softling softling “a soft little hand” [OED] of a wee white mouse, Weke,weke, that's crept to keep him company! Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, And please to know me likewise. Who am I? Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend Three streets off—he's a certain . . . how d'ye call? Master—a ... Cosimo of the Medici Cosimo of the Medici 1389-1464, Florentine politician and patron of the arts, who supported Lippi , I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Pick up a manner nor discredit you: Zooks, are we pilchards pilchards small sea fish , that they sweep the streets And count fair price what comes into their net? He's Judas to a tittle to a tittle to a T , that man is! Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hang-dogs hang-dogs despicable people go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbours me (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) And all's come square again. I'd like his face— His, elbowing on his comrade in the door With the pike and lantern,—for the slave that holds John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say) And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! John Baptist’s head a-dangle … unwiped John the Baptist was a New Testament prophet who baptized Jesus; see Matthew 3. The “Beheading of the Baptist” and “Banquet of Herod” are two works by Lippi (both in Prato) on the theme of John the Baptist’s end at Herod’s hands. It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, You know them and they take you? like enough! I saw the proper twinkle in your eye— 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands To roam the town and sing out carnival carnival riotous season prior to the austerity of Lent , And I've been three weeks shut within my mew mew figuratively speaking, a cage , A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again. I could not paint all night— Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. There came a hurry of feet and little feet, A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts whifts bits of a song of song, — Flower o' the broom, Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! Flower o' the quince, I let Lisa go, and what good in life since? Flower o' the thyme—and so on. Round they went. Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,—three slim shapes, And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood, That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, All the bed-furniture—a dozen knots, There was a ladder! Down I let myself, Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, And after them. I came up with the fun Hard by Saint Laurence Saint Laurence a church in Florence: S. Lorenzo in Vasari. Lippi painted an Annunciation scene here , hail fellow, well met,— Flower o' the rose, If I've been merry, what matter who knows? And so as I was stealing back again To get to bed and have a bit of sleep Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, Jerome …flesh St. Jerome (c.340-420), a Doctor of the Latin Church, noted for an ascetic life and writings You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head— Mine's shaved—a monk, you say—the sting 's in that! If Master Cosimo announced himself, Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! I was a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street. I starved there, God knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, My stomach being empty as your hat, The wind doubled me up and down I went. Old Aunt Lapaccia Aunt Lapaccia Filippo’s aunt, who cared for him after his father died trussed me with one hand, (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) And so along the wall, over the bridge, By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, While I stood munching my first bread that month: "So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time,— "To quit this very miserable world? Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?" thought I; By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house, Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici Have given their hearts to—all at eight years old. Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 'Twas not for nothing—the good bellyful, The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, And day-long blessed idleness beside! "Let's see what the urchin's fit for"—that came next. Not overmuch their way, I must confess. Such a to-do! They tried me with their books: Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste! Flower o' the clove. All the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love! But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets Eight years together, as my fortune was, Watching folk's faces to know who will fling The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, And who will curse or kick him for his pains,— Which gentleman processional and fine, Holding a candle to the Sacrament, Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch The droppings of the wax to sell again, Or holla for the Eight the Eight “the magistrates of Florence” [Ian Jack] and have him whipped,— How say I?—nay, which dog bites, which lets drop His bone from the heap of offal in the street,— Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, He learns the look of things, and none the less For admonition from the hunger-pinch. I had a store of such remarks, be sure, Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. I drew men's faces on my copy-books, Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge antiphonary’s marge margin of an antiphon (a book of chants used during Mass) , Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, And made a string of pictures of the world Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. "Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say? In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. What if at last we get our man of parts, We Carmelites Carmelites an order of mendicant friars, founded at Mount Carmel in the 12th Century; also called White Friars , like those Camaldolese Camaldolese member of the religious order founded in the 11th Century also called Camaldolites And Preaching Friars Preaching Friars Dominicans, an order of mendicant friars, founded by St. Dominic in the 13th Century , to do our church up fine And put the front on it that ought to be!" And hereupon he bade me daub away. Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, Never was such prompt disemburdening disemburdening disburdening . First, every sort of monk, the black and white the black and the white Black Friars are Dominicans; White Friars are Carmelites , I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church, From good old gossips waiting to confess Their cribs cribs minor thefts of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,— To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard and half For that white anger of his victim's son Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, Signing himself with the other because of Christ (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the passion of a thousand years) Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. I painted all, then cried "'Tis ask and have; Choose, for more's ready!"—laid the ladder flat, And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. The monks closed in a circle and praised loud Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, Being simple bodies,—"That's the very man! Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! That woman's like the Prior's niece Prior’s niece euphemism for an intimate of the Prior who comes To care about his asthma: it's the life!'' But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked funked went out, smoked ; Their betters took their turn to see and say: The Prior and the learned pulled a face And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here? Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay, But lift them over it, ignore it all, Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. Your business is to paint the souls of men— Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . . It's vapour done up like a new-born babe— (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul! Give us no more of body than shows soul! Here's Giotto Giotto Florentine painter, Giotto di Bondone (1266/67-1337) [Metropolitan Museum site] (For an example of his work, see here .) , with his Saint a-praising God, That sets us praising—why not stop with him? Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head With wonder at lines, colours, and what not? Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! Rub all out, try at it a second time. Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, She's just my niece . . . Herodias Herodias Herod’s second wife, see Matthew 14:1-12. Her daughter Salome dances before Herod, who afterwards grants her whatever she will wish.   At the suggestion of Herodias, Salome asks for John the Baptist’s head.   Lippi’s “Banquet of Herod” (in Prato) shows this scene of the Baptist’s head on a platter. , I would say,— Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask? A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white When what you put for yellow's simply black, And any sort of meaning looks intense When all beside itself means and looks nought. Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, Left foot and right foot, go a double step, Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint—is it so pretty You can't discover if it means hope, fear, Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash, And then add soul and heighten them three-fold? Or say there's beauty with no soul at all— (I never saw it—put the case the same—) If you get simple beauty and nought else, You get about the best thing God invents: That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed, Within yourself, when you return him thanks. "Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short, And so the thing has gone on ever since. I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds: You should not take a fellow eight years old And make him swear to never kiss the girls. I'm my own master, paint now as I please— Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front— Those great rings serve more purposes than just To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, The heads shake still—"It's art's decline, my son! You're not of the true painters, great and old; Brother Angelico's Brother Angelico Fra Angelico (1387-1455), Florentine painter, who was also a Dominican. For examples of the work of Fra Angelico, search the Metropolitan Museum website . the man, you'll find; Brother Lorenzo Brother Lorenzo Lorenzo Monaco (Piero di Giovanni), active 1390-1423, Florentine painter who was a Camaldoli monk. For examples of the work of Fra Lorenzo, search the Metropolitan Museum website . stands his single peer: Fag on fag on labor at at flesh, you'll never make the third!" Flower o' the pine, You keep your mistr ... manners, and I'll stick to mine! I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage, Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint To please them—sometimes do and sometimes don't; For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints— A laugh, a cry, the business of the world— (Flower o' the peach Death for us all, and his own life for each!) And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over cup runs over Compare to Psalms 23:5 : “my cup runneth over.” , The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, And I do these wild things in sheer despite, And play the fooleries you catch me at, In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, Although the miller does not preach to him The only good of grass is to make chaff. What would men have? Do they like grass or no— May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing Settled for ever one way. As it is, You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: You don't like what you only like too much, You do like what, if given you at your word, You find abundantly detestable. For me, I think I speak as I was taught; I always see the garden and God there A-making man's wife I always see the garden and God there … wife See Genesis 2:18-23. : and, my lesson learned, The value and significance of flesh, I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. But see, now—why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star's about to shine, What will hap some day. We've a youngster here Comes to our convent, studies what I do, Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: His name is Guidi—he'll not mind the monks— They call him Hulking Tom Guidi; Hulking Tom Tommaso Guidi, painter better known as Masaccio (1401-28), that is “Careless Tom, or Hulking Tom (not necessarily in disapproval)” (Vasari, 1.318). , he lets them talk— He picks my practice up—he'll paint apace. I hope so—though I never live so long, I know what's sure to follow. You be judge! You speak no Latin more than I, belike; However, you're my man, you've seen the world —The beauty and the wonder and the power, The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades, Changes, surprises,—and God made it all! —For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, The mountain round it and the sky above, Much more the figures of man, woman, child, These are the frame to? What's it all about? To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, Wondered at? oh, this last of course!—you say. But why not do as well as say,—paint these Just as they are, careless what comes of it? God's works—paint any one, and count it crime To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works Are here already; nature is complete: Suppose you reproduce her—(which you can't) There's no advantage! you must beat her, then." For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted—better to us, Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now, Your cullion's cullion term of contempt: a rascal hanging face? A bit of chalk, And trust me but you should, though! How much more, If I drew higher things with the same truth! That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh, It makes me mad to see what men shall do And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: To find its meaning is my meat and drink. "Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain It does not say to folk—remember matins matins a set time for morning prayers , Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this What need of art at all? A skull and bones, Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. I painted a Saint Laurence six months since At Prato Prato the cathedral in Florence; Lippo made frescoes there from 1452-66 , splashed the fresco in fine style: "How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns— "Already not one phiz phiz face, physiognomy of your three slaves Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side Deacon . . . toasted side St. Laurence (d. 258), who was a deacon and martyr; he was roasted to death , But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, The pious people have so eased their own With coming to say prayers there in a rage: We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. Expect another job this time next year, For pity and religion grow i' the crowd— Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools! —That is—you'll not mistake an idle word Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot God wot God knows , Tasting the air this spicy night which turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! It's natural a poor monk out of bounds Should have his apt word to excuse himself: And hearken how I plot to make amends. I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece ... There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see Something in Sant' Ambrogio's Sant’ Ambrogio’s Vasari: “There [Florence] he wrought a very beautiful panel for the high-altar of the Nuns of S. Ambrogio, which made him very dear to Cosimo de’ Medici, who became very much his friend for this reason.” [Giorgio Vasari Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects, trans. Gaston du C. de Vere, New York: Alfred A. Knopf (Everyman’s Library), 1:437] ! Bless the nuns! They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet As puff on puff of grated orris-root orris-root an iris, used in powdered form in perfumes and medicine When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer. And then i' the front, of course a saint or two— Saint John' because he saves the Florentines Saint John … Florentines John the Baptist, who baptized Jesus; see Matthew 3. Also see earlier note. , Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white The convent's friends and gives them a long day Saint Ambrose … day Either Saint Ambrose (c. 339-97) a Doctor of the Latin Church, who was the bishop of Milan, or Saint Ambrose of Camaldoli, also known as Fra Ambrogio (c. 1386-1439), who was in the Camaldolensian Order in Florence. , And Job, I must have him there past mistake, The man of Uz Job; man of Uz Job   main character of The Book of Job in the Hebrew Bible, focusing on Job’s suffering, and by extension, human suffering. Job 1.1 begins “There was once a man in the land of Uz whose name was Job.” (and Us without the z, Painters who need his patience). Well, all these Secured at their devotion, up shall come Out of a corner when you least expect, As one by a dark stair into a great light, Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!— Mazed Mazed stupefied , motionless, and moonstruck—I'm the man! Back I shrink—what is this I see and hear? I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake, My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, I, in this presence, this pure company! Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing Forward, puts out a soft palm—"Not so fast!" —Addresses the celestial presence, "nay— He made you and devised you, after all, Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw— His camel-hair make up a painting brush? We come to brother Lippo for all that, Iste perfecit opus! Iste perfecit opus From the Latin, “ ‘This man made the work.’ In this painting, as later completed, these words appear beside a figure which Browning took to be Lippi’s self-portrait.” [Norton The Norton Anthology of English Literature: Major Authors Edition. Ed. M. H. Abrams et al., 1962] So, all smile— I shuffle sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wings Thrown like a spread of kirtles kirtles a man’s tunic or a woman’s gown when you're gay And play hot cockles play hot cockles a euphemism, based on the name of a children’s game, for having sex , all the doors being shut, Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy Saint Lucy a virgin and martyr who died in Syracuse, Sicily, in the early 4th Century; she is a patron saint for those with eye diseases , I would say. And so all's saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! The street's hushed, and I know my own way back, Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning. Zooks!

Whom should I choose for my Judge? the earnest, impersonal reader, Who, in the work, forgets me and the world and himself! Ye who have eyes to detect, and Gall to Chastise the imperfect, Have you the heart, too, that loves, feels and rewards the Compleat? What is the meed of thy Song? 'Tis the ceaseless, the thousandfold Echo Which from the welcoming Hearts of the Pure repeats and prolongs it, Each with a different Tone, compleat or in musical fragments.

At first all you see are the folds of drapery, high grass close together, swaying beads you parted as a child, field behind the house, then river. Sky. You were told finches lived there, red- winged, tipsy, upside down their hold on the reeds, even so they sang, trilling over and over your outstretched hands song poured like seeds from a basket or from a bowl, water. There was a woman, young, beautiful—you used to hug her from behind, closing your hands over the cry of surprise she gave out like perfume. Now here she is, rising from the dead landscape of memory, just this fragment of her, still kneeling.

Winter in the country, Southampton, pale horse as the soot rises, then settles, over the pictures The birds that were singing this morning have shut up I thought I saw a couple kissing, but Larry said no It’s a strange bird. He should know. & I think now “Grandmother divided by monkey equals outer space.” Ron put me in that picture. In another picture, a good- looking poet is thinking it over, nevertheless, he will never speak of that it. But, his face is open, his eyes are clear, and, leaning lightly on an elbow, fist below his ear, he will never be less than perfectly frank, listening, completely interested in whatever there may be to hear. Attentive to me alone here. Between friends, nothing would seem stranger to me than true intimacy. What seems genuine, truly real, is thinking of you, how that makes me feel. You are dead. And you’ll never write again about the country, that’s true. But the people in the sky really love to have dinner & to take a walk with you.