“Don’t make her witty, which would be a mistake. She is nothing but flesh, but flesh in all of its beauty. And, I repeat, a good-natured girl.”
Flesh in all of its beauty: Zola’s Nana and Saint Phalle’s Nanas
We Shall Joyfully Tell Each Other Everything That has Happened
Some thoughts on Camus’ Myth of Sisyphus and Dostoyevsky’s Alyosha
Crow and Cricket: Two Autumn Poems from Matsuo Basho
Some thoughts on two autumn poems from Matsuo Basho
The Mask
New fiction from Garner Behnke.
Men, Whose Life is But a Day
And maybe Epimetheus wasn’t so slow or foolish, so backward. Because “epi” also means upon, beside, about. Maybe he was thinking of the world aside from the struggle of gods and mortals. Maybe he was wisely thinking around that, besides that, of the rest of the world, which can continue with balance and equilibrium from day to day, regardless of the torments that gods and men bring upon themselves.
I Would Have Described the Rain
“There are big dogs and little dogs, but little dogs must not fret over the existence of the big ones. Everyone is obligated to howl in the voice that the Lord God has given him.”
Bitter Boy
‘”What do we do now?” I asked, but Dirk obviously had no answer. We knew the name of the camp, but that was it. No idea where it was, how far from the station it was. No contact name. No phone number. No coins for the payphone even if we had a number.’
Ezra Jack Keats: The Joy of Being Alive
“My book would have him there simply because he should have been there all along.”
Better Things, Maybe
And suddenly we saw everything differently. The simplicity of the story seemed significant, even profound. The simplicity of the language seemed elemental, important. The repetition made beautiful, resonant little circles of words. And everything we’d learned about writing was bullshit.
This Decaying Sense
And this is true of man and beast, as well sleeping as waking.
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