Born in February 8, 1911 / Died in October 6, 1979 / United States / English
What childishness is it that while there's breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.
The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.
All my life I have lived and behaved very much like the sandpiper - just running down the edges of different countries and continents, 'looking for something'.
Arthur was very small. He was all white, like a doll that hadn't been painted yet.
The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake....
How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't?
His breast was deep and white, cold and caressable; his eyes were red glass, much to be desired.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears
Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvellous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.
this cartoon by Raphael for a tapestry for a Pope:
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or some northerly harbor of Labrador,...
Somebody arranges the rows of cans...
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