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Showing posts from March, 2011

Too Good to Believe

I bought waxflowers at the grocery store yesterday - tiny petaled cups of pinkish-purple and white, with dark centers. I'm no flower arranger. They stand in a clear glass vase on a corner of my dresser, the mirror to the side of them, blossoms floating atop a plume of tall evergreen stems. The dresser is honey-colored, situated where the two corner windows, like sluice gates, let sunlight flood in. The walls are pink. Thus the light around the waxflowers is bright and light and clear, causing a physical sensation of lightness when you look at them.

Sitting in Bed

I regret to say that I've been watching a lot of 21 Jump Street lately, but today the real show is happening outside my window: the luxurious sound of rain and a wet tree with reddish-brown autumn leaves still clinging to it. The damp air comes in the window and wraps me in the outdoors.
I just read Collected Stories of Carson McCullers, and the two stories you always hear of - The Ballad of the Sad Cafe and The Member of the Wedding - are as brilliant as they say. I'd like to see the play version of The Member of the Wedding that brought McCullers so much critical acclaim. It must be stunning. Does anyone ever produce it nowadays? McCullers is buried in Nyack, New York, which is where I used to live.
It's rare to find well-written literary criticism. I have stumbled upon it in the introduction to W. H. Auden's Selected Poems (expanded edition), by Auden's literary executor Edward Mendelson.