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Cover free of tears but shows light chipping at edges, Spine is uncreased, Light bump evident on top of spine, Pages are free of marks or highlighting, Not ex-library.
she was worried the way she loved he didn’t—and he could tell. It was clear, not quilts filled high with gossamer and roses, neither poppies nor mandragora, could have put Isabel at rest. The time had come to go. At the door, Darconville turned, took from his pocket the gold ring he’d bought in Quinsyburg—two birds interclasped on a moonstone— and slipped it on her right hand. She handed him a box she’d pulled from under a chair: a gift of a blue shirt. He wished he hadn’t had, that she
Fawx’s Mt. road he headed out of the mountains, raced toward Charlottesville, and, after smiling down at Spellvexit, his cat, and up at God, his palinure, he turned north and drove into the world. LVIII Over the Hills and Far Away Let there be pie. Why else a sky? —D. J. ENRIGHT IT WAS STRAIGHT OUT, all highway, a perfect shaft toward the sunpolished horizon. Whistling along at a good clip, Darconville listened to the clattering rattles and backfiring of the
Hans Magnus Enzensberger’s “Misogynie.” Apollinaire’s The Debauched Hospodar; F. Lee Utley’s The Crooked Rib; The Lyrics of Archilochus; Gelett Burgess’s The Maxims of Noah and The Maxims of Methuselah; The School for Reform by Thomas Morton; Gascoigne’s The Steele Glas (1576); Dr. Magnus Hirschfield’s Welt als Wille und Vorstellung and Geschlechtskunde; Reveries of a Bachelor by Ik. Marvel; François Villon’s “La Belle Heaulmière aux filles de joie”; Karen Horney’s The Dread of Women; Sex
was to return. To do, however, was not necessarily to make, nor to shape, to shape correctly. A maniacal stylist, Darconville worked to shape what he wrote—contour of form with respect to beauty, coherence of matter with respect to blend—and to dig in matter the furrows of the mind, for in all creation matter sought form, form matter, and that was as profound an exhortation to the artist as any: form matter! The Greeks, he reminded himself, designated the world by a word that means ornament,
little knots. They like whiskey with good bead, respect Shriners, whistle a lot, drive with one hand, slide crotch-first onto barstools, and—just “funnin’ “—love to hang around butt-slapping and goosing each other, punctuating certain remarks of course with that significant nudge just before they’re going to fart. They like to wade into swamps and jacklight rats, are big lodge-joiners, and know everything about guns which they always handle, silently, with phallic reverence. They have hands like