A scattering of mind (like rain flung out small and squalled against the random panes attention turns to in its hunt for some lasting fascination that will hold its gaze and not allow a second scene to come and slide its heart away) is hard to stay and even harder to abide.
“If you chance to find an authoress occupied with her needle, express no astonishment, and refrain from exclaiming, ‘What! can you sew?’ or, ‘I never supposed a literary lady could even hem a handkerchief!’ This is false, and if expressed in words, an insulting idea. A large number of literary females are excellent needle-women, and good housewives; and there is no reason why they should not be.” Etiquette for dealing with the authoress, from 1854.
“It has been said of Ulysses that, were Dublin ever obliterated, the city could be substantially rebuilt by consulting its pages. Along these lines, if all Europe were, God forbid, laid waste tomorrow, one might do worse than attempt to recreate it, or at least to preserve some sense of its historical splendor and variety, by immersing oneself in the travel books of Patrick Leigh Fermor.”
These great washes of episodic light across the walls—how facile the reduction of passage to shape, and yet.
Once when I was burning tracks away from home on hurried legs the city appeared to me as a collection of boxes in the streetlamps’ gloaming— windows punched out of the dusk in proportion— and complications resolved themselves into simple desire. Selfish but without remand. Here I put what doesn’t reflect a perfect symmetry.