The graveyard being what he called his face; even as a young man he called his face the graveyard—he talked like that, funny, odd things that scared me sometimes
in our early years—I thought maybe he was a little touched (his Uncle Bob was certi [...]
It is night. I feel it is night not because darkness has fallen (what do I care about darkness falling) but because down in myself the shouting has stopped, has given up.
Only three days later I realized the chalk outline was gone, faded, no doubt, in the rains that flushed the gutters clean, & now a steady line of haze
as the sun walks its beat. There were photographers, yes, a few nights back: flashbulbs burp [...]
You need something to tend that exacts a stately pace. You could set type, dice vegetables for soup, or knit a tiny sweater no faster than the baby
gestates for whom it's meant. Or translate Martial, scrubbing the rust from your Latin. Then you co [...]
I am chilly, nephew. I can smell the fire from the neighbor's home and hope to get its heat.
Don't say that flames have no odors, they do, nephew, but only the truly cold can understand.
Don't wander the marketplaces or stand before the stores. D [...]
It frequently happens that an artist who has had enormous prestige during his lifetime suffers a temporary decline in his reputation after his death. T.S. Eliot is the perfect example.
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