Me and the other jerks scrolling on the train, we're not summoning anything.
Here is Woolf at her most unvarnished, obsessed, her most playful and silly and unpolished and free.
In the effort of poetry to communicate, it must always deal in the dirty commodity of the word.
A million-acre wetland of towering oaks, six-foot-deep mud, wolves, and malaria, northwest Ohio was arguably the most inhospitable piece of land in the world.
I apologize in advance for any errors in memory or judgment.
If language mediates reality, then it can be wielded to create new ways of being in the world.
"Forgotten" is written in the calm register of a lecture instead of a scream, which does not diminish its authors' agony.
There are places to look for answers.
Cohen does not appear to be in on the joke.
Is the hand being proffered in the spirit of a gift, or is it evidence, rather, of something damning and unnamed?
How can one be trusted with a language that one has lost?
stalked by something incomprehensible and menacing.