I'm looking forward to your thoughts about the tragedy of the little princes in RIII.
* * *
Today I woke up late, with cold morning peering over the blind. Yesterday's class went well enough, and I think the residency will be fine, so long as I don't end up with any horrible snow commutes.
I've got tomorrow's Longfellow Days reading to prep for, and next weekend's love poem workshop at Longfellow's house to prep for . . . so much Longfellow this month! But perhaps Maine is the last bastion of Longfellow honor. I don't think he's been stylish anywhere else for a long time.
I had to take a break from The Birth of the Modern because I was trapped in a swamp of economics and bank policy. I'm sure someone would find it fascinating, but I could not. So as relief, I reread a short Trollope novel (Dr. Wortle's School) and now I am rereading Colm Toibin's story collection Mothers and Sons.
More work keeps coming in. It's so funny how that happens all at once: workshops, a few private manuscript reviews, and now I've been tapped to proofread a well-known literary magazine.
Here's a Longfellow poem . . . a beautiful heartbreaking one.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,—
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,—
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.