Nocturne

Last night in bed I mouthed a prayer of my own composition. It sounded offhand, it was carelessly addressed, it twisted my meaning entirely, it left an ache, I didn’t know what I was doing. So I took down my yellowed copy of French With Pictures by the late literary critic I.A. Richards and I put my petition into soft French words. I.A. Richards believed that irony was the language of redemption. He wrote and lectured famously on this, but his masterpiece was French With Pictures. “The chapeau is on the table.” “The man with the beard stands before the window.” “She comes from a village by the sea.” There is no improving the old traditions. They are already mortal, partial, and wrong. The woman at the table by the window puts her head into her hands. “Into your hands,” she said.