only impatience usual quaver of more than a hint of mockery ‘but mother is ill’ complaining wheels near the kitchen miller a nook of pastry cheese on a large scale fat lands quads and lanes an old Crusader grim purpose all Crusaders stink orange eyes fighting geography dust and fly-specks
into drawing room nine windows but, you won’t agree such a selling down a young man out of the unknown a train from Kings Cross at 11 an unlovely clock ‘tell no one, Helen’ poor Helen
If any loquacity remains in my life’s stockpile, it hasn’t been diminished during these months in quarantine, the quarter of a year that got tagged onto concurring years of (mostly supine) solitary living. As it’s happened, I’m almost mute. Or have been muted. I don’t know why, nor by what and don’t even mind. Truth(…)
fashion unbecoming talk them out filching sincerity pickled in these pages the name of sympathy June 15, 1886 even Aunt Ann strange and unsafe fair share of fresh air of sniff cheeks and hallows the origin of doubt significant trifle distinct a snob resolute face an Apple Charlotte came olives were removed if(…)
on every side spread out undulating all, and much five drapers beautiful and handsome at the same time and rank
a full head above two chairs snakes too in the summer cheaper chickens Kate says poor folks can’t the eyes I save mattress shucks eat their mistakes that extra $3 be selfish and stone hard until death and after no better than ants not even learning
his imperial saw her as his good luck charity only he finally, begrudgingly on December 2 a thousand diamonds
when almost everyone wore a hat Sontag had fifty words not from anywhere some readers somewhere bits ever smaller for shipmates big bloody far-ranging in Jewish ethics not the red cape anymore re-trying knots the eraser of the past
the original German ‘dearest Max’ ‘yours, Franz Kafka’ translated as Brod was ‘why do’ tap Hungarian marginals something akin to appreciation indescribably sick of this her prior inattentiveness
