across days and years whose bareness appalls her biographers. My father lives in a hospital for patients who need chronic care, characterized by two sorts of pathological change.
My mother has a way of summing things up.
that surrounded her father’s house on every side. Very hard to read, the messages that pass.
the inexorable spirit (“stronger than a man, simpler than a child”). in the cerebral cortex and in the hippocampus. which she felt herself to be confined in?”. Anne Carson: The Glass Essay 18 August 2018 I I can hear little clicks inside my dream. She whached eyes, stars, inside, outside, actual weather.
Certain wild gold arrangements of weed are visible deep in the black. Once I heard girls singing a May Day song that went: who remained a girl all her life despite her body as a woman. But in between the neighbour who recalls her.
Perhaps I can explain this to her if I wait for the right moment. She describes Thou as awake like herself all night. Night drips its silver tap down the back. stretched like a surface of millstone grit between body and mind. The last time I saw Law was a black night in September. She walks on the moors, they take a trip to see her father who has advanced Alzhiemers. Carson lived in Montreal for several years and taught at McGill University, the University of Michigan, and at Princeton University from 1980 to 1987. From a writer’s perspective, this demonstrates consistency. Four naked alder trunks rise straight up from it, where it enters the ice radiates a map of silver pressures—, thousands of hair-thin cracks catching the white of the light, Emily Brontë has a poem about a woman in jail who says, A messenger of Hope, comes every night to me. had cruelty drifted up in all the cracks of her like spring snow. No. My mother’s kitchen is dark and small but out the window. into the first blue currents and cold navigation of everything awake. It shows his World War II air crew posing in front of the plane. imagining someone vast to whom I may vent the swell of my soul? wrote Charlotte the day after burying her sister. that dies when I come in the kitchen door. A haunting poem. My mother always closes her bedroom drapes tight before going to bed at night. and looking past me he issues a stream of vehemence at the air. Why, it’s a disgrace!
She was a 1998 Guggenheim Fellow, and in 2000 she was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship. He would start a sentence—about weather, lose his way, start another. formed of a kind of rock called millstone grit, taught Emily all she knew about love and its necessities—, an angry education that shapes the way her characters. They keep rolling out of his huge stiff fingers. The Glass Essay is narrative, but not that much actually happens in terms of plot. that he had no idea who he was talking to. He uses a language known only to himself. I watched a chunk of it lean over the roof and break off, A great icicle formed on the railing of my balcony. She could have been a great navigator if she’d been male. Emily continued to brush into the carpet the question. Nude #10. my ungainly body stumping over the mud flats with a look of transformation. She is buttering her toast with jagged strokes. Me da miedo la poesía y no entenderla, pero me gustó harto la forma en que escribia Carson y la historia, si bien me perdí a ratos.
I took this to be more a wish than a thought, “The practice of hinting by single letters those expletives. Nude #2. Days passed, months passed and I saw nothing. I like to believe that for her the act of watching provided a shelter. Covering her head and upper body is a hellish contraption, With arms crossed as if pulling off a sweater. Refresh and try again. We’d love your help.
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