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… lengthens, and you disappear. Because your secrets have become mine without you, I know you’re still asking for … The few remaining are so well hidden, should they become metaphors for happiness, they’d be crippled by their …

… then to release it incrementally, then to grip it again, comfortably but firmly, as he backed up between a snowdrift … he said to himself. He understood this thought to be a falsehood but he chose not to correct it. He liked the way it … studying his reflection in the mirror, just as he had studied hers on the drive out. He was furious with her, all but …

… and searching, so fashionable in our generation, for a false originality, Miss Millay has stood her own ground with … about an insincere gesture, no matter how it may be accomplished. A lover of light and clarity, Miss Millay, with … man should settle to the earth again; But that a dream can die will be a thrust Between my ribs forever of hot pain. To …

… I read the dispatch from Vichy: Marcellin Boule is dead. I also thought of a door. To reach it, you mount the shallow … We knew we were expected. A note from Professor Boule had come to us that morning, written in a microscopic hand we … to the anthropological section of the Museum and studied it there, I was to remain in M. Boule’s laboratory to …

… about my father (the one who was never home). I don’t complain. Indeed I wish the story were entirely my father’s. … proudly, “Nobody will find us here.” Far below us soldiers marched, horses trotted, caissons clinked, and Sousa’s … played with large discs which slide across the ice to score points. At the time my father was living with a friend, the …