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Eines morgens in einem Sixpencebett
Replies are forthcoming. Links are all you get today. My brain is not in an interactive space right now, unless it's with three books and my keyboard.
Sidney Stratton, eat your heart out.
A.E. Housman, eat your heart out.
Chryse of the Bull Court.
The forms of Silas Horne, Cates, and Jimmy Kanaka rise noiselessly into the room from the stairs. The last two carry heavy inlaid chests. Horne is a parrot-nosed, angular old man dressed in gray cotton trousers and a singlet torn open across his hairy chest. Jimmy is a tall, sinewy, bronzed young Kanaka. He wears only a breech cloth. Cates is squat and stout and is dressed in dungaree pants and a shredded white sailor's blouse, stained with iron rust. All are in their bare feet. Water drips from their soaked and rotten clothes. Their hair is matted, intertwined with slimy strands of seaweed. Their eyes, as they glide silently into the room, stare frightfully wide at nothing. Their flesh in the green light has the suggestion of decomposition. Their bodies sway limply, nervelessly, rhythmically as if to the pulse of long swells of the deep sea.
—Eugene O'Neill, Where the Cross Is Made (1918)
Sidney Stratton, eat your heart out.
A.E. Housman, eat your heart out.
Chryse of the Bull Court.
The forms of Silas Horne, Cates, and Jimmy Kanaka rise noiselessly into the room from the stairs. The last two carry heavy inlaid chests. Horne is a parrot-nosed, angular old man dressed in gray cotton trousers and a singlet torn open across his hairy chest. Jimmy is a tall, sinewy, bronzed young Kanaka. He wears only a breech cloth. Cates is squat and stout and is dressed in dungaree pants and a shredded white sailor's blouse, stained with iron rust. All are in their bare feet. Water drips from their soaked and rotten clothes. Their hair is matted, intertwined with slimy strands of seaweed. Their eyes, as they glide silently into the room, stare frightfully wide at nothing. Their flesh in the green light has the suggestion of decomposition. Their bodies sway limply, nervelessly, rhythmically as if to the pulse of long swells of the deep sea.
—Eugene O'Neill, Where the Cross Is Made (1918)
no subject
The obituary of Conchita Cintrón is fascinating, and the Aigamemnon piece is too funny.
Speaking of that last, did you ever read Alexander Jablokov's The Fury at Colonus?
I hope the interaction with three books and a keyboard is going well for you.
no subject
No, and I think he was at the conference, too. Damn.
I hope the interaction with three books and a keyboard is going well for you.
Slowly, but going, which is what I need it to do. Thanks.
no subject
Too bad, although it's cool that he was at the conference. He's one of my favourite writers. I think that sometime you might like to read Carve the Sky--the first quarter or third (sorry, it's late and I've been at school all the day and I'm no much use for numbers and proportions at the best of times) of the book takes place in twenty-fourth century Boston.
Slowly, but going, which is what I need it to do. Thanks.
I hope it's soon going faster than slowly, but I'm glad it's going. And you're welcome, as always.