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Tonight I'm staying in with a book. Peter Hoeg's The Quiet Girl. I've loved him since his first novel, The Borderliners, about a boarding school in Iceland and the young boys who survived it. I think I even tried to write something about the boy sneaking out to the shed to steal gasoline and set the school aflame. . . swans on fire, swans of ash, or some such nonsense.
Haven't been able to put away my September Reads. They're littering my desk. I guess I'm not finished. Or they're not finished with me.
Re-read Cormac McCarthy's The Road
Thom Gunn's Boss Cupid
Frank Bidart's Watching the Spring Festival
Yusef Komunyakaa's Warhorses
Antonio Lobo Antunes' What Can I Do When Everything's Burning
Jenn Currin's Hagiography
Jean Cocteau's Les Enfants Terribles
Adam Zagajewski's Eternal Enemies
Jaime Sabines' Tarumba
Valzhyna Mort's Factory of Tears
A chapter from Georges Batailles' The Absence of Myth
and one from Julia Kristeva's Powers of Horror
They're a pretty noisy crowd here. Maybe in the next few nights I'll take on a few of them so I can put them away. Constellation of poems, lines, feelings. . . "This is how dead men haunt their murderers dreams."
Windy here, off the beach.
Up in the leaves, a storm. Not really,
just the eucalyptus acting like the sea.
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