Season is one of those words that goes to our origin in language; as we ripen, so do the words and the languages we use. At the same time, we are the words and languages we use. And, for better or for worse, the words and languages use us, and we are thereby revealed. This is how they change and grow, how they disappear or slowly crumble into proud obsolescence. […]
The primitive human in me doesn’t want to be sitting here at a keyboard. It wants to be gathering wood or picking berries. If I must tell stories, let it be near a fire, sung as a poem, or pounded out on a drum. . In life as in the library — may the sweetest, ripest fruit always be just out of reach. . A cloudy morning for the eclipse. […]
I collect sentences as I collected sticks and feathers when I was a boy, and then I forget them when night-time comes. How much of pain can be attributed to its original cause, and how much to the fear it will grow worse, and maybe not end? If I’m still alive at suppertime, I think I’ll set the table with the yellow dishes my parents often used when I was […]
William Michaelian 