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I have also seen a curious female coyote five times but never before she has seen me I turn from my bat chores and look at my friends busy in the kitchen, feeding that if he wore a Dolly Parton wig he would be the most attractive woman in town. With a northern front the weather has turned cold and somber which will.
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When we were come to where the thigh revolves Exactly on the thickness of the haunch, The Guide, with labour and with hard-drawn breath, Turned round his head where he had had his legs, And grappled to the hair, as one who mounts, So that to Hell I thought we were returning.
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I lifted up mine eyes and thought to see Lucifer in the same way I had left him; And I beheld him upward hold his legs. And if I then became disquieted, Let stolid people think who do not see What the point is beyond which I had passed. That side thou wast, so long as I descended; When round I turned me, thou didst pass the point To which things heavy draw from every side, And now beneath the hemisphere art come Opposite that which overhangs the vast Dry-land, and 'neath whose cope was put to death The Man who without sin was born and lived.
Thou hast thy feet upon the little sphere Which makes the other face of the Judecca.
Here it is morn when it is evening there; And he who with his hair a stairway made us Still fixed remaineth as he was before. Upon this side he fell down out of heaven; And all the land, that whilom here emerged, For fear of him made of the sea a veil, And came to our hemisphere; and peradventure To flee from him, what on this side appears Left the place vacant here, and back recoiled. The Guide and I into that hidden road Now entered, to return to the bright world; And without care of having any rest We mounted up, he first and I the second, Till I beheld through a round aperture Some of the beauteous things that Heaven doth bear; Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars.
Dante Alighieri Purgatorio, Canto X When we had crossed the threshold of the door Which the perverted love of souls disuses, Because it makes the crooked way seem straight, Re-echoing I heard it closed again; And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it, What for my failing had been fit excuse? We mounted upward through a rifted rock, Which undulated to this side and that, Even as a wave receding and advancing.
From where its margin borders on the void, To foot of the high bank that ever rises, A human body three times told would measure; And far as eye of mine could wing its flight, Now on the left, and on the right flank now, The same this cornice did appear to me. Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet, When I perceived the embankment round about, Which all right of ascent had interdicted, To be of marble white, and so adorned With sculptures, that not only Polycletus, But Nature's self, had there been put to shame.
The Angel, who came down to earth with tidings Of peace, that had been wept for many a year, And opened Heaven from its long interdict, In front of us appeared so truthfully There sculptured in a gracious attitude, He did not seem an image that is silent. One would have sworn that he was saying, "Ave;" For she was there in effigy portrayed Who turned the key to ope the exalted love, And in her mien this language had impressed, "Ecce ancilla Dei," as distinctly As any figure stamps itself in wax.
There sculptured in the self-same marble were The cart and oxen, drawing the holy ark, Wherefore one dreads an office not appointed.
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People appeared in front, and all of them In seven choirs divided, of two senses Made one say "No," the other, "Yes, they sing. Preceded there the vessel benedight, Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist, And more and less than King was he in this. Opposite, represented at the window Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him, Even as a woman scornful and afflicted. I moved my feet from where I had been standing, To examine near at hand another story, Which after Michal glimmered white upon me. There the high glory of the Roman Prince Was chronicled, whose great beneficence Moved Gregory to his great victory; 'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking; And a poor widow at his bridle stood, In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold Above them visibly in the wind were moving. The wretched woman in the midst of these Seemed to be saying: "Give me vengeance, Lord, For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking. While I delighted me in contemplating The images of such humility, And dear to look on for their Maker's sake, "Behold, upon this side, but rare they make Their steps," the Poet murmured, "many people; These will direct us to the lofty stairs.
But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve From thy good purposes, because thou hearest How God ordaineth that the debt be paid; Attend not to the fashion of the torment, Think of what follows; think that at the worst It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence. Who, in the vision of the mind infirm Confidence have in your backsliding steps, Do ye not comprehend that we are worms, Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly That flieth unto judgment without screen?
Why floats aloft your spirit high in air? Like are ye unto insects undeveloped, Even as the worm in whom formation fails! As to sustain a ceiling or a roof, In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure Is seen to join its knees unto its breast, Which makes of the unreal real anguish Arise in him who sees it, fashioned thus Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed.
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True is it, they were more or less bent down, According as they more or less were laden; And he who had most patience in his looks Weeping did seem to say, "I can no more! Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter. Teach This Poem. Follow Us. Find Poets. Read Stanza. Jobs for Poets. Materials for Teachers. So we find Huck writing and rewriting the story, a man wisened with age, trying to capture that lack of maturity in youth. Did you find it difficult to maintain that balance in Huck, as the man and the boy?
The balance you speak of is the accommodation we all must make, at last, with our youthful selves. Like anyone, there are things in my past I regret. But the book would most certainly have failed if Huck, in his winter, had been given the high ground of moral enlightenment without that undermining. If he had been permitted to denounce the iniquities of the American past without implicating himself in them, the story would be pretentious, solemn, and false.
The truth about Huck and ourselves would have been concealed behind a screen of self-righteousness. The hateful attitudes of the past persist in the American grain. This is the irony and the sadness of the book. Jim is also a complex character, prophetic and tragic. Did he evolve in any unexpected ways as you wrote? At the outset, I thought he would be no more than the helpless, faithful, hapless victim of racist antebellum society and of the casual cruelties inflicted by Huck and other townspeople — the Jim of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
But I soon realized that I could invest Jim with a rich humanity — its pain and indignities, its possibility of grace and fineness; I could make him sentient, intelligent, and a man — I could, in other words, give Jim his due and tell the truth about people we defame or neglect to see fully, if at all.
It was an opportunity to rehabilitate the fictional character who is the moral core and tragic epicenter of The Boy in His Winter. I doubt a character could have evolved more radically than this. You write fiction in both short and long form. Did you prefer one over the other? And what are you at work on now? I wrote a great many plays, too, that are their own category of fiction and continue to influence my non-dramatic work in readily apparent ways, as does the poetry I wrote in the 60s and 70s and again in through for The Book of Imaginary Colophons and In the Time of Rat , a book-length poem about the Thirty Years War.
I found writing novels as opposed to novels-in-stories or novels-in-prose poems difficult while I was working and commuting.
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While I did produce two novels and a novella, I tended to write short things that I could compose, refine, and remember during the three hours spent in the car each day. When I retired four years ago, the novel became truly possible and desirable; I could spend six or seven hours each day at the keyboard. While I enjoy the short form very much, I hope to devote myself exclusively to the novel and to plays for stage and radio. What I want to say requires the long form. I hope to begin writing it in late summer.
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At Baton Rouge, we entered the twentieth century. We did so by night, like thieves stealing into a house we would ransack for unimaginable treasures and horrors. We knew nothing of what lay ahead on that river in space and in time. But we were entranced as anyone would be who sees for the first time a town made incandescent by Mr.
At first, we thought the cause of our astonishment must be a myriad of candles or oil lamps strung among trees for some grand civic occasion.
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We had been born, remember, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, when the infant science of electricity produced little other than parlor tricks, and we had been well insulated from progress of most every sort on the raft. What is it, Jim? But at the moment, his depth was that of someone who had sounded to the bottom of despondency. Yes, it had a bottom. Jim suffered much, but he did not seek, like some others, to make his life more tragic than he could bear.
Or I could stand to listen to. Streets are likely to be empty this late. Tom would have suggested a lark: minor vandalism of public property, a skirmish, a small robbery, bullying a defenseless boy, or a visit to a whorehouse, where he would hop straight out of bed and then out the window, without paying.
Did we miss them? I was thirteen. Jim mourned his lost wife and children. Sexual desire was not part of our journey. No, these town lights were unmoving, and so was Jim in his refusal to go ashore. In the end, I had to respect his conviction that the lights — at first, so astonishing in their novelty — did not bode well for two travelers in flight from their origins.
I guessed that the town was under a curse, unless it was only Jim and I who were.