Was it a special classroom? How did that work? So she was taken to regular classes. Jo Reed: You write in your memoir that speaking English in the classroom was very difficult for you. You felt very shy about your English, and you made it a point to use the bare minimum of words. Kao Kalia Yang: Definitely. Even now, even today, in English, I feel breathless in the language. Hmong is a tonal language. So every breath I carry into the world carries meaning. In English, I feel like I have rocks in my throat and I have to sculpt them into shape for a bigger world.
But I have this very clear memory of going to K-Mart with my mom, and my mom trying to ask for lightbulbs. Except, she didn't know the word, so she pointed to the ceiling and said, "I'm looking for the thing that makes the world shiny. And when my mom stumbled to the end of her sentence, the clerk walked away, and we waited for her to come back, but she didn't. And I remember looking at my mom, who I thought was the most beautiful woman, she looked at her feet, and I decided that if the world that we lived in did not need to hear my mom and my dad, then surely it didn't need to hear me.
So I became a selective mute the next day, and at first, it was a great rebellion. At first, it was me making a decision not to speak.
But then, the rebellion got the better of me. It got to a point where my voice in English was so rusty that every time I tried to speak, other kids would look and sometimes laugh, and so the words, they died in my throat before they ever found their way into the world. I got through my public school experience. I graduated from high school with my thumbs up in the air. Jo Reed: You know, you write that it was so hard for you to see your parents stumble in English, and even though you were uncomfortable in it, you would translate for them if your sister wasn't there?
Kao Kalia Yang: Yeah. When they were there, I stumbled my way through because I wanted to protect them. I knew that they were doing so much for us already and I didn't want them to be in the moment of that indignity that was our initial K-Mart experience with English. And so when my mom and dad needed me to, I tried, I've always tried, to step up to the plate. Because I think, even as a kid, I realized that no matter how weak I thought my voice was, how faulty I felt I was, I knew that I was their best chance going forward. That's what my dad said. He said I was their best chance going forward.
So I've always tried for them. Sometimes I've succeeded and sometimes I've failed. But I can honestly say I've never not tried. Jo Reed: You come from a culture in which family is all-important, to a place that values the individual above everything else. Jo Reed: And I'm curious about some of the challenges that that must have presented to you, and yet at the same time, how where you come from gives your life really a more profound meaning, in some ways.
Kao Kalia Yang: I have a very clear memory of being in the third grade. There was a very handsome young man in class, called Mark, and Mark would sometimes open the door for me. One day, Mark asked me how many people was in my family, and I counted all my aunts and my uncles and my grandma, and so I had, like, a hundred something. And I asked him how many people were in his family, and Mark said, "Four. I play on a big team.
At family gatherings, I know what it is like when lots of hands come together to make a meal, and these things are very special to me. I'm married now and I married a white guy, and so he comes from a family of four, his mom, his dad, his sister, himself. I find it's very lonely. So the life that Aaron and I've built together has been really a mix, you know. There is him and me and our three kids, and then my siblings come in and out of our house. You know, my brother lives with us Monday to Friday, and then the girls, now that they're home from school, they're all home here so they can work, so that they can take care of each other, and take care of our kids and take care of us.
I cannot envision of a different way to live, a different way to be. But I'll be very honest. I'm one of the older ones, so there are some responsibilities, right? No matter how much I earn, because my mom and dad both no longer work, I take care of all the younger ones and I take care of them to the best of my abilities. Sometimes I feel the responsibility grow heavy, and I worry and I worry and I worry. But the truth is, the standard I have for myself is high.
You know, I can't fail because I can't fail them. The stakes are always high. So every opportunity I get, I have to kill it. I have to do a good job. Every door that opens, I have to make sure that it's open for the next one. I think it's made me a better person. I think my heart, there's so much in it that it's open wide, and at the same time, I'm tremendously cared for in the process.
I am tremendously loved. You know, my dad says, "We are poor in money, but we're not poor in love. We're not poor in heart. Kao Kalia Yang: The bookmobile was my first introduction to the library. In the housing project, there'd be a bookmobile that would come every week, and so because we didn't own a VCR, my older sister used to hold my hand and we'd go to the library and we'd check out books and then, she would create elaborate stories for me with the books.
Made up stories that would make me cry and weep. I called her the human VCR. That was my first introduction to the library. But I remember coming home with my library card, the purple St. Paul Public Library card, and showing my grandma, and she said, "What is it? There weren't stories like my grandma.
But I fell in love with the library. Jo Reed: You're a reader and you're a listener of stories, and if you don't mind, help me to think about the differences between those worlds of reading and someone telling you a story, how we apprehend that differently. Every piece of hair standing up is a person, you know. His knuckles, the rise and fall are the mountain ranges. The rivers are the veins flowing through. That's my first introduction to illustrated, I think, picture book. It was his arms, and it's still his arms that I see when I hear the stories around me. I remember the way my older sister Dawb would use the books.
She would open them up and then, somehow, you know, in the pages of Cinderella , she created the great Chinese dramas from her memories of the movie houses in Thailand. You know, so there would be princesses flying on the tops of the trees, you know, magic, magical arcs of water dancing over the sky, which is to say, my first understanding of stories is that they can come together across cultures and exist in the imagination of a child, of a person.
All you had to do was be able to see and be willing to go with it. Kao Kalia Yang: I did too, as a little girl, and I loved them because of the way they depicted life. It was a real depiction of life and people in it, and it was so familiar to me and my own experience of life and the people in my life.
But I also have this memory of going to the librarian--and the librarian is still alive, so she remembers it much more clearly than I--asking her in a whisper for books about people like me. She gave me a book about the Chinese, the Japanese, the Vietnamese. But she couldn't give me a book about Hmong kids, and I whispered under my breath, I said, "One day, a little girl is going to come in here and she's going to find a book, about the people who love her, on the shelves. Of course, I didn't think that I would be an author one day, a writer. What did you want to invoke in or impart to your readers?
My grandma, who was already an old woman, but she promised me that she would never die. We were a few months from my graduation from college. She'd always told me that education was a garden I cultivated in America, and that one day we would reap the harvest together. I started dreaming about my grandma and I being together at my graduation. But my grandma fell, and when I went to her and told her to get up, she told me that she wasn't gonna get up again, and I started crying, and she told me I was selfish-- she told me I was selfish for crying.
She told me that there were people who loved her before me, that before me she had a mom and a dad and brothers and sisters and my grandpa. And that when she left me, it would be to return to the people who loved her before me, that to them she would always only be the latehomecomer. You know, she said there was no Hmong land in the map of a bigger world.
But she would climb the Hmong mountain in her heart, open the house of her youth, and dinner would be ready and everybody will be there and they'll say, "Where have you been? Why are you crying so long? So I started writing, and it was just a long love letter to her. And so this long love letter is what I kept on working on, and my dad said, "What are you doing?
So that was my intention, very personal, very private. Jo Reed: How did you discover your own writing? That this was something that-- that you had a great talent for doing? Kao Kalia Yang: In second grade, I wrote a short story about a watermelon seed that would be eaten by a little girl, and afterward, my teacher wrote a comment on it. Because I didn't talk, she said, "Kao's not so bad. She's getting somewhere with the language. She's not so bad, at all, on the page. The problem is she won't speak it.
And for me, that question mark always, you know, "What do you mean to say? I think writing has always been my bread and my butter in the classroom. I thought I was good at math and I thought I was good at science because those are the things that my education focused on. But it was always in writing that I could rest, and I've had fortunate beautiful teachers who saw that in me. Callatan, ninth grade, who told me I would do well in college because all college came down to in the end was the ability to read and write.
I remember Monica Torres, at Carleton College, telling me to keep on writing because-- because the things I was writing, she had never read before. Jo Reed: Did you think you'd pursue a career in writing, when you were at Carleton? Kao Kalia Yang: Oh, no. I was on the pre-med track. Like lots of refugee and immigrant children, my mom and dad told us we needed doctors and lawyers; that lawyers can protect the rights that we've never had enough of, that doctors could heal what is so broken in the bodies around us.
So Dawb said, my sister who won the spelling bee, said that she would become a lawyer, and it fell upon me, I thought, to become a doctor. So I went to Carleton to become a doctor.
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It wasn't until my grandma died and I started writing, and I started dreaming big, that I—that the idea of becoming a writer solidified in my head. I remember sitting opposite my mom and dad at our dining table, our little dining table, and telling them I wasn't going to become a doctor, that I was going to become a writer. And my mom looked at me and she said, "It's not a surprise. You've always loved stories. But I believe in big magic and I believe in my grandma's magic. I would not be here today speaking with you if my grandma hadn't opened up that journey for me. On the day that we buried my grandma, I got two phone calls, when I went back to school.
One of them was from Columbia University offering me a place in their program, and giving me their biggest fellowship in writing, that they could pay for half of my tuition. And they said that they would pay for half of my tuition no matter where I went, and give me a twenty thousand dollar living stipend a year. Kao Kalia Yang: It is. The Song Poet is definitely a memoir about my father and his form, kwv txhiaj, song poetry. Kao Kalia Yang: My father sings. In kwv txhiaj your voice is your only instrument so there is no instrumentation, and you sing the songs of your heart to a bigger world.
My father has always sang his songs for me. He sang it for our community. In he came up with an album that was a best seller in the Hmong community so he made five thousand dollars. The goal was always that he would use that five thousand to create a second album, but it never happened because it translated to clothing on our back, rice in our bowls. So then when my grandma died my dad stopped singing and he said that he stored the songs in his heart; his heart was broken and the songs had leaked out.
I went back to that cassette album, and I kept on listening to it. My daughter writes in English the stories I yearn to read. I would write a book about him. My grandma had nine kids to feed. He used to go from the house of one neighbor to the next collecting the beautiful things that people had to say to each other. One day the words escaped on a sigh and a song was born. That was the answer that he gave me. But he said that nobody wanted to read a book about men like him, why would anybody want to read a book about a poor machinist, a Hmong refugee in the factories of Minnesota.
And I know that the world is made up of men like my father. So I started writing it. Jo Reed: We touched on this earlier, that as specific as your book is, given the current refugee crisis it has such a particular resonance now, and one hopes, gets people to think about refugees in a more humane way. Kao Kalia Yang: I hope so. So I think that the book is invaluable in an understanding of the American situation and the American circumstance.
The ways we see ourselves as a people, as a person changes, and then I think we only change when we get feedback, when we can see ourselves more clearly. The best titles I understand are the ones that hold the biggest possibilities for meaning. The Latehomecomer is Kao Kalia Yang after forty years in America putting the Hmong experience on the bookshelves for a bigger world.
But The Latehomecomer is also America. I feel like we are still coming home to each other. I want his words to be true so badly. Jo Reed: Kalia, thank you so much. Thank you for giving me your time and thank you for writing this very important book about your family and about a people. Kao Kalia Yang: Thank you so much, Josephine for the—for the wisdom of your questions and granting me opportunity and space to think about these things that matter so much to me.
Thank you. Skip to main content. Introduction to the Book "The people say that once you take down the shacks and once the grass grows in that it's over, but wars don't end Kao Kalia Yang b. Updated July The prologue to The Latehomecomer offers a glimpse of what it means to Yang to be Hmong, in many ways summarizing the story about to unfold. Why do you think Yang begins this way? Why do you think she wrote the prologue in third person when the rest of the memoir is written in first person? Were you familiar with the involvement of the Hmong people in the Vietnam War before you read the book?
In what ways can a memoir go beyond mere documentation to expand our understanding of a chapter of American history? How does Yang describe her parents when they meet, and in what ways do they change throughout the book? Is their story a love story? How does Yang talk about love? When the Yang family crosses the Mekong River, they're forced to leave their family photos behind. What belongings carry meaning in The Latehomecomer? Who knows? And since all along there had been too many ends to the story, and since they did not end anything, but only continued something, something not formed into any story, I needed an act of ceremony to end the story.
My husband remained there some time after me to settle our affairs, and at first I had intended to go back to him, but at his desire I altered that resolution, and he is come over to England also, where we resolve to spend the remainder of our years in sincere penitence for the wicked lives we have lived. In the end they had to carry me to the infirmary and feed me through plastic tubes. The most beguiling of the rumors has me living among beggars and syphilitics, performing good works, patron saint of all those men who hear the river-whistles sing the mysteries and who return to sleep in wine by the south wheel of the city.
It was the nightmare of real things, the fallen wonder of the world. Everything we need that is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks. The tales of the supernatural and extraterrestrial. The miracle vitamins, the cures for cancer, the remedies for obesity. The cults of the famous and the dead. Then he saw a shirt come down out of the sky. He walked and saw it fall, arms waving like nothing in this life. But I know that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my darling is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that my guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was seen, and that they can very well do without much beauty in me—even supposing—.
O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!
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We shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to see the ashes of our fires turn grey and cold. They went quietly down in the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed, and as they passed along in the sunshine and the shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the forward and the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar.
I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her. And Harry K. Thaw, having obtained his release from the insane asylum, marched annually at Newport in the Armistice Day parade. Doctorow, Ragtime Doctorow, Billy Bathgate Donleavy, The Ginger Man First one sheet, then another, blew off the table, until the floor was littered with them.
But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.
Constance Garnett. But to us too it seems that this will be a good place to stop. Michael R. In your rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may never feel. The small company, minus Russell, entered the yellow, unprepossessing door and disappeared. And say farewell, farewell to Alexandria leaving. We had the castle within us. We carried it away. I leave this manuscript, I do not know for whom, I no longer know what it is about: stat rosa prinstina nomine, nomine nuda tenemus.
But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you? Through the warm fog of his last breath, he watched the memories of a hundred ghosts drift skyward to finally and vainly burst.
He waited for someone to tell him who to be next. And when again the vision comes, I find that, ready to do battle, I am running: obsessively running. Raymond Federman and Patricia Privat-Standley. A story. Just a story. And such is their condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a neighbor, a tenant, or a servant, who doth not most gratefully bless the day when Mr.
Jones was married to his Sophia. So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby He has just received the cross of the Legion of Honour. Margaret Mauldon. The bitch is dead now. And in truth, of course, this may be the last time that you will ever feel this way again. But I thought that perhaps that would not be quite English good form, so I trotted off with the telegram to.
She was quite pleased with it. The song died away; they heard the river, bearing down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean. Forster, A Room with a View Forster, A Passage to India They disappear among the poplars. The meadow is empty. The river, the meadow, the cliff and cloud. The princess calls, but there is no one, now, to hear her. What exists, though, is the memory of events known and imagined, and the use of words to continue the memory through centuries, despite or with the Gravity Star, to a future when today, our Now, will be known as our past has been known as Ancient Springtime, while we, who treasure the Memory Flower, are the housekeepers of Ancient Springtime.
What matters is that I have what I gave; nothing is completely taken; we meet in the common meeting place in the calm of stone, the frozen murmurs of life, squamata, sauria, serpentes ; in the sanctuary. She was seventy-five and she was going to make some changes in her life. I am looking now into a mirror, watching Father die. Behind me my son and daughter stand, also watching Father die. She came over, and it occurred to him that he would like to try something a little theatrical, just kneel there quietly with his arms protectively draped around his wife and child.
Friedman, Stern No one remembers the whole story. Margaret Sayers Peden. Alfred MacAdam and Carlos Fuentes. He was the only person caught in the collapse, and afterward, most of his work was recovered too, and it is still spoken of, when it is noted, with high regard, though seldom played. Gaddis, The Recognitions So I mean listen I got this neat idea hey, you listening? You listening …? He came lightly down the metal steps into balmy air and diesel fumes, and feeling in himself the potent allegiance of fate, he pushed open the door to the lobby, where unkempt sleepers slumped upright on the benches.
You have fallen into art—return to life —William H. Meanwhile carry on without complaining.
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No arm with armband raised on high. No more booming bands, no searchlit skies. Or shall I, like the rivers, rise? Is rising wise? He took possession of this earth, theirs; one of them. Over in England they were married and lived happily ever after. On the whole he was well satisfied with his day. He fell asleep almost at once in the yellow woolen nightshirt. She walked rapidly in the thin June sunlight towards the worst horror of all.
Everything had gone right with me since he had died, but how I wished there existed someone to whom I could say that I was sorry. His body jolted backward, jolted the floorboards, and Ella Mae Waterson screamed, but Robert Ford only looked at the ceiling, the light going out of his eyes before he could say the right words. Ford Always alone, apart, somehow solitary, Tristan is buried up in Alberta.
The sun in the evening.
The moon at dawn. The still voice. I—I myself—I was in love—with—Priscilla! Within the cabin, nothing could be heard. The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain. He could feel his heart beating against the pine needle floor of the forest. The old man was dreaming about the lions. And the question haunts me—will I, can I, after my knowledge of these things, still hear the sounds of song?
Hinton, Rumble Fish She turned on a lamp, checked her appointment book, sorted the magazines in the waiting room, refilled the Kleenex supply, plumped the pillows on her sofa, and then sat down in her chair, ready. Homes, In a Country of Mothers Looking at that gentle, happy throng of clean innocent faces and soft graceful limbs, listening to the ceaseless, artless babble of chatter rising, perhaps God could have picked out from among them which was Emily; but I am sure that I could not.
So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see. Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east …. But in the world according to Garp, we are all terminal cases.
Newman instinctively turned to see if the little paper was in fact consumed; but there was nothing left of it. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped. He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him. His eyes darkened—it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, face down, on the tomb.
She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now the key to patience. Isadora drifted toward rest, nestled snugly beside me, where she would remain all night while we, forgetful of ourselves, gently crossed the Flood, and countless seas of suffering.
But that was just a story, something that people will tell themselves, something to pass the time it takes for the violence inside a man to wear him away, or to be consumed itself, depending on who is the candle and who is the light. My love for my children makes me glad that I am what I am and keeps me from desiring to be otherwise; and yet, when I sometimes open a little box in which I still keep my fast yellowing manuscripts, the only tangible remnants of a vanished dream, a dead ambition, a sacrificed talent, I cannot repress the thought that, after all, I have chosen the lesser part, that I have sold my birthright for a mess of pottage.
One day one of their number would write a book about all this, but none of them would believe it, because none of them would remember it that way. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. Willa and Edwin Muir. I am the author of Peter Prince.
Above the farm, a moon bright as butter silvers the night as Annie holds the door open for me. Kinsella, Shoeless Joe A photograph of his scrotum, the size of the biggest collective farm pumpkin, is also reprinted in foreign medical books, wherever elephantiasis elephantiasis nostras is mentioned, and as a moral for writers that to write one must have more than big balls. Diska Mikic-Mitchell. All of them, except Phineas, constructed at infinite cost to themselves these Maginot Lines against this enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who never attacked that way—if he ever attacked at all; if he was indeed the enemy.
I spoke loudly and incessantly like the peasants and then like the city folk, as fast as I could, enraptured by the sounds that were heavy with meaning, as wet snow is heavy with water, confirming to myself again and again and again that speech was now mine and that it did not intend to escape through the door which opened onto the balcony. Going along the sidewalk, dragging my tail. The others listened with interest, their naked genitals staring dully, sadly, listlessly at the yellow sand.
Michael Henry Heim. Lawrence, The Rainbow John Thomas says good-night to lady Jane, a little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart. Why should you! Lawrence, Women in Love He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers But not everything fails.
Standing on the backstairs of the Museum, looking up and down the river, you can believe, like the ancient Greek, that everything flows. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning. And behold the Geomancer, whose name measures the Valley, who shaped the hills and helped me sink half California, who went on the Salt Journey, caught the Train, and walked every step with Grey Bull—Heya Heggaia, han es im!
Amoud gewakwasur, yeshou gewakwasur. Le Guin, Always Coming Home Side by side, not truly quiet but quiescent, two gnarls of human scribble, human cipher, human dream. He fell back into the net, which rocked imperceptibly above them, and he sang quietly to himself, as if that helped him negotiate his exhaustion. He was, indeed, so confidently happy that he completely forgot Fran and he did not again yearn over her, for almost two days.
We shall yet make these United States a moral nation! Adria Frizzi. Capote When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.
Somebody threw a dead dog after him down the ravine. So the blind will lead the blind, and the deaf shout warnings to one another until their voices are lost. Then for a moment in that cold Irish soul of mine, a glimmer of the joy of the flesh came toward me, rare as the eye of the rarest tear of compassion, and we laughed together after all, because to have heard that sex was time and time the connection of new circuits was a part of the poor odd dialogues which give hope to us noble humans for more than one night.
Roger Foster waited in the shadow of a long-boughed two-trunked silver maple as Dubin ran up the moonlit road, holding his half-stiffened phallus in his hand, for his wife with love. Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors or mirages would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.
Gregory Rabassa. The old man who will not laugh is a fool. Als ick kan. Very few castaways can claim to have survived so long at sea as Mr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengal tiger. I put my left hand on his left hand and waved my other hand in front of him and realized that both his eyes were darkened now with his wonderful and perfect sight. He is sitting there cross-legged in front of the wall, and slowly his face bursts into a smile like flames. Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining.
He told me what he was going to do when he won his money then I said it was time to go tracking in the mountains, so off we went, counting our footprints in the snow, him with his bony arse clicking and me with the tears streaming down my face. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die. Passed and paled into the darkening land, the world to come.
In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. Everyone was looking up at me and Sub, and I was not sure what I had seen but I knew what we had done. He fits himself around her, her silk pyjamas, her scent, her warmth, her beloved form, and draws closer to her. Blindly, he kisses her nape. You will have to learn everything all over again. And thus, pursuers and pursued flew on, over an endless sea.
It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan. The body was burned to ashes; but for many days, the head, that hive of subtlety, fixed on a pole in the Plaza, met, unabashed, the gaze of the whites; and across the Plaza looked toward St.
Something further may follow of this Masquerade. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner After all, tomorrow is another day. It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.
For now she knew what Shalimar knew: If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it. By and by all trace is gone, and what is forgotten is not only the footprints but the water too and what is down there. The rest is weather. Not the breath of the disremembered and unaccounted for, but wind in the eaves or spring ice thawing too quickly. Just weather. Certainly no clamor for a kiss. Now they will rest before shouldering the endless work they were created to do down here in Paradise. From the roof there fluttered eggs and roses. The hands shadow themselves against the wall, large, touch in huge shadows on the wall, merge, move as one huge hand toward death.
I am out the door and in the potholed and rutted driveway, scrambling ahead of Taylor, greedy with wants and reckless from hope. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. But it was not until much later that I was able to get any real sleep. In a place far away from anyone or anywhere, I drifted off for a moment. Jay Rubin. Gripping the receiver, I raised my head and turned to see what lay beyond the telephone booth.
Where was I now? I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again, I called out for Midori from the dead center of this place that was no place. You are part of a brand-new world. Philip Gabriel. I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita. But whatever happens, wherever the scene is laid, somebody, somewhere, will quietly set out—somebody has already set out, somebody still rather far away is buying a ticket, is boarding a bus, a ship, a plane, has landed, is walking toward a million photographers, and presently he will ring at my door—a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus.
The men began singing, a grave slow song that drifted away into the night. Soon the road was empty. All that remained of the German regiment was a little cloud of dust. Sandra Smith. McTeague remained stupidly looking around him, now at the distant horizon, now at the ground, now at the half-dead canary chittering feebly in its little gilt prison.
Could the truth be so simple? So terrible? The Reddingtons always went to a hotel where the women guests were not permitted to smoke. How they say the camera catches you, but how in point of fact you will always be able to get away. Milo Magnani glows with quiet pride, gives their thoughts back to these people, and, straightening his bowtie unnecessarily, rises to depart. Around him, throats clear, feet scrape, candy wrappers crinkle. The world grows brighter and brighter and brighter. Milo inhales and exhales.
He waits. The film begins. Time longer than rope. But apart from seeing Jokey again, my life remained an uninflected one of stalking around unbothered, until finally one day a thought succeeded in forming itself: that what had been a lifelong irritant—that I walked around the world unseen, as if invisible—had now become a strange and beautiful blessing, freeing me to live my life all over again, as if the previous one had only been a rough draft, a vague outline to be crossed over, exceeded, to be transcended, as if that life was the earthly life and this one, the California one, with myself benumbed and calm and floating inside the bubble of mall after white mall—places that were like hospitals with their piped-in music and blanching light—as if this life, finally, was the heavenly one.
The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which. Have I betrayed them all again by telling the story? Or is it the other way around: would I have betrayed them if I had not told it?
Nicholas de Lange. And then, in the blue light of Stockholm among zebra fumes, he grieved. Erdag M. For it is the dawn that has come, as it has come for a thousand centuries, never failing. But when that dawn will come, of our emancipation, from the fear of bondage and bondage of fear, why, that is a secret. I watch her walk toward St Charles, cape jasmine held against her cheek, until my brothers and sisters call out behind me.
Tell me how free I am. Famous next-to-last-words. Then they both looked up to the lifting sky—Lois followed their eyes—and found they were right. It was morning clear, cloudless, the oldest gift , would be morning oh six hours yet. The room, though, is still. No one has breathed. And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery. Annie Proulx, The Shipping News Annie Proulx, Brokeback Mountain If, at least, there were granted me time enough to complete my work, I would not fail to stamp it with the seal of that Time the understanding of which was this day so forcibly impressing itself upon me, and I would therein describe men—even should that give the semblance of monstrous creatures—as occupying in Time a place far more considerable than the so restricted one allotted them in space, a place, on the contrary, extending boundlessly since, giant-like, reaching far back into the years, they touch simultaneously epochs of their lives—with countless intervening days between—so widely separated from one another in Time.