At twilight in the summer there is never anybody to fear—man, woman, or cat—in the chambers and at that hour the mice come out. They do not eat parchment or foolscap or red tape, but they eat the luncheon crumbs.
The crisis of our time, he writes, is one of which the entire cause lies in the hearts of men, and only poetry can cure this failure of desire because only poetry, exploring the spirit of man, is capable of creating in a breathful of words the common good men have become incapable of imagining for themselves.
The crisis of our time,
is one of which the entire cause lies in the hearts of men,
failure of desire
only poetry, exploring the spirit of man, is capable of creating in a breathful of words the common good men have become incapable of imagining for themselves.
In her discussion of Michelle Cliff's Abeng, a novel that historicizes maroon culture and the Jamaican warrior heroine Nanny of the Maroons, Francoise Lionnet examines linguistic “metissage” […]
Dung beetles dived into delicious organic cowpats left by longhorn cattle that hadn’t been fed wormers and parasiticides
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