27 September (1963): E.B. White to Stanley Hart White
I feel like a spider in a bathtub—can’t get my dragline anchored to anything. (I also walk into glass doors, and take the bruises.)
Review: Jean-Paul Sartre in "We Have Only This Life to Live"
Thus the essays in this collection give us a sense of Sartre in full: the man of letters, the philosopher, the Marxist ideologue, and even the friend…
24 September (1859): Emily Dickinson to Dr. and Mrs. J. G. Holland
We talk of you together, then diverge on life, then hide in you again, as a safe fold. Don’t leave us long, dear friends! You know we’re children still, and children fear the dark…
23 September (1951): Marianne Moore to William Carlos Williams
As for me, you see me in too good a light. I never held up anything and nobody loved me!
The Book of Twenty Million Pages: Leopardi and the "Zibaldone"
Written between the years 1817 and 1832, the Zibaldone, or “hodgepodge,” is a monstrous diary, the diary of a polyglot genius whose Italian is interlarded with Greek, Latin, Spanish and French…
19 September (1931): Malcolm Lowry to Conrad Aiken
Malcolm Lowry writes to friend, poet, and novelist Conrad Aiken from Oslo. Hotell Parkheimen Drammensveien 2, Oslo[September 1931] Hi there, Colonel Aiken— SS Fagervik[1]—oh which, curiously, very many happy memories—has been laid up & I am here waiting a … Continued
Mold WallFrom the Print
I’d always felt my boy would live forever. He seemed strung with a different make of vein…
17 September (1912): Carl Sandburg to Paula Sandburg
They were all heavy with rain drops, sheer white and wild, the sun gleaming rainbows and prisms from them, a pathos of eager living in them…
16 September (1933): Dylan Thomas to Pamela Hansford Johnson
If I were some Apollo, it would be different. As a matter of fact, I am a little person with much untidy hair…
13 September (1796): Mary Wollstonecraft to William Godwin
Now by these presents let me assure you that you are not only in my heart, but in my veins, this morning. I turn from you half abashed—yet you haunt me, and some look, word or touch thrills through my whole frame—yes, at the very moment when I am labouring to think of something, if not somebody, else. Get ye gone Intruder!