God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. If by God we mean a very particular cake that once gave off a delectable aroma and bestowed a splash of bright, beautiful, and terribly artificial color on a muted winter landscape, then yes, God is dead. And we three (oh, three, that…
1. Sorrow is a legion of worn women with crepe skin and black shawls and brooms. The whispering of the straw scrapes the floor as they quietly shunt dust out the door, shake the crumbs from billowing tablecloths that churn and coil in the wind, held tight by gnarled fists. When they are finished with…
“No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.” – F. Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby [To M.L., his boots stretched on the fireplace] From the shadows we watch his face in the blue half-light of the fire. Hear the draft beneath the door and the fire’s dying…
We had a Jam Club party at the end of the school year and watched Disney’s the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I’m reading it right now. Just made an idea web of the similarities and differences between Dumas and Hugo. Ernest Hemingway wrote a beautiful little collection of stories called A Moveable Feast about his…