Monthly Archives: November 2015

I hardly knew what I said or who I would be, now that I know you

I can see me reading your first book of poetry. Someone told me about it on a train. She had red hair, and when we were at the English teacher’s conference together, we stayed in the same hotel. I skipped … Continue reading

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I have never lit a fire that has gone out

She then ignores fire as a symbol. This seems a sad revelation. It suggests a haunted hungering. I suppose we write in early years about places where our bodies grow. In reality we seem to be a face tilted up … Continue reading

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Whenever it would come into conflict with her romantic image

What I have to say is really distinct from the artist or the art. As I discovered myself, I began to understand women of yesterday and today. The mute ones of the past, the inarticulate, who took refuge behind wordless … Continue reading

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It is the woman who had to speak

Above all, her early diary stemmed from her overwhelming vocation to observe comment and set down her laughter, her tears, her sadness, her enthusiasm, come to the surface like bubbles of oxygen from the deep waters of her introspection. She … Continue reading

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It wasn’t a journal of love or of loneliness

I think I know where I stand, plant dreams deeply I arranged all my journals on shelves. They’d been stored in boxes for years. Almost 100, they began when I was 13. In the earliest journals, I found a girl … Continue reading

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En L’An Vingt-Cinquieme de Mon Age

The arms of those armchairs resemble the legs of young women who have just come over in a tramp steamer. They sing happily of the long days of the voyage, and they are glad to see the armchairs again. …………………………………………………………….. … Continue reading

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He’s very Norwegian

from within the earth bitter cold, broken fingers my friend the sun rises she is at the edge of the garden It is a snowy day here. My fingers are cracking beneath the pressure. I spent Thanksgiving walking, and later … Continue reading

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