What grew in me without my knowing, what crept stealthily into my burgeoning little boy’s identity and went unrecognized for years, was a keen sense of competition. The expectation, need, and desire to be the best was administered in tiny doses without their knowing by family, friends, acquaintances, and teachers. The best reader, the best speller, the best runner, the best at throwing or kicking a ball — the process […]
After my hospital adventure, I wasn’t able to go back to school right away. But the time finally came when I was deemed strong enough to return to the classroom. The first day, instead of catching the morning bus to school, my mother took me in the early afternoon, after lunch and recess. It was story time. If I remember correctly, the teacher read to us, but we might also […]
A fine school of words, and the fishermen asleep at their nets. . [ 1668 ]
A falling star — a petal bright, from the flower. * Some books I leave open, so that during daylight hours, I can read a few lines from them in passing. Diaries, journals, letters, poetry, too — and it’s all poetry, beginning with the light coming in through the window. Or call it pollen, or honey, because the words coat the wings, and sweeten the tongue. * How many things […]
Not many days ago, and an equally uncertain number of nights, I read backward and aloud the last page of Samuel Beckett’s The Unnamable. Standing before our big front window, paced by the commas, I read the words slowly and with feeling. When I reached the top of the page, I wondered if the author might not have done the same thing himself. It’s possible he could even have written […]
I’m reading Ulysses again, and Joyce and I agree, all three of us have changed. . [ 1583 ]
If ever I were to strike out what I don’t understand, What would stop me from striking out more each day, Until at last I’ve stricken out everything, Except my own poor ignorance? . [ 1574 ]
We meet each other in different languages, even when we write and speak the same. What we read and say and hear, is who we are and who we’ve been. What we mean, or what we think or hope we mean, matters less than listening, with love. . [ 1562 ]
Terrible poetry, yet what a joy it is to read, for love is blooming with the weeds. . [ 1532 ]
William Michaelian 