"When one's children are grown up . . . and the flat is empty I find that one talks to certain pieces of furniture quite often, and to oneself, of course."
"These are hard times for poets. . . . Poetry has suffered its fate. Let's only hope that music doesn't follow it."* * *
The rain has stopped, for the moment, but last night our bedroom was like a treehouse in a gale. It was delightful. I spent Sunday doing a whole lot of nothing much, other than some desultory laundry-washing and stew-making. This week I hope to be more energetic. I have a batch of Frost Place poet introductions to write, a poetry manuscript to finish editing, and a new academic-manuscript project on the horizon.
And no doubt there will be more chaos in Washington to distract me. The various characters in our executive branch are like flotsam spinning down a curbside drain.
* * *
And here's another bit from Fitzgerald. Ponder it metaphorically as you see fit:
"In size and shape [the bomb] approximately resembled a taxi, and passers-by in fact mentioned that they had thought it was a taxi. It was understandable therefore that [Jeff], who appeared anyway to have something on his mind, should walk up to it, and, confusing it in the darkness, try to open what might have been, but was not, a door. Anyone might have done this."