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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
Thank God for Bollywood and daytime TV. For the all night partyers and marathon love makers. For the hash brownie bakers, the nut crackers and pot-stirrers ... the drum-beating banjo-twanging wannabe musicians ... the incense wafting up from the first floor through our bathroom vent — frankincense I'm tempted to think.
This is yer suit and yer tie. This is yer glimpse of the sky. This is yer walk in the rain. This is yer dash for the train. This is yer train to the city. This is yer town without pity.
I love reading about the lives of the poets. The ones for whom nothing good ever happened. The ones who were sure that if they did not write, they would surely disappear. The ones who tried to make the invisible visible, and failed; who carried news to this world from another one, as if it were bottles of wine and loaves of bread.
I'm a white man in a white man's world, his mother tongue the lingua franca everywhere. I may not be rich, but I am more or less free, and my calling has let me travel the world. It's easy for me, not having had to fight for mine, to ask us to go deeper than identity when we write. But when James Baldwin says the same thing, it compels.
i am a dinosaur / old fogie off with pixies / poor old dodder-bloke! / i grow wings and fly ... telling my song-story / you would put me in my box?
Take almost any street, in any modern city, and we are there. We are the substrata of society, ever-present, the unseen lining, the padding in the crowd. We carry our backgrounds closer than our wallets, effortlessly. Yet they inform our every step.
They feel a shyness and a fear/taking off their clothes. Gravity has had its say/regarding shape and size. Their bodies are a narrative/permitting no disguise. There’s been no rush — or just a bit — the lattes have been had.
All right, Chongqing, let my dry skin fall in love with your moisture, my eyes used to the desolation and wind and sand ... Your sudden flashes of lightning and thunder, commotion of dripping water, and the heaving quietness, the fate of history.
He may be proud, even arrogant, but he's fun. With Odysseus you read yourself; his company is exciting and revealing, so much so that his homecoming is everyone's domesticity.
What about compoundnounsthatrunlike this. Something here about the glory of native bush even tho you have never been beyond zone 3 on PT. Add doleful '....' Beckettian misery here. (Phew, your 20th century Lit Minor was not a waste!) So winning so woke you never even zzz.
He proceeded to move in with silence. His eyelash touched her cheek first, then his lips. Only one with an expert heart could get it this right, she thought to herself, as he kissed the right, then left cheek, pressing his fig-lips precisely in the right place.
Robert Harris' The Gang of One ranges through Harris' five published books and a number of uncollected poems. Early work grows from his occasionally lonely, knockabout life and reveals not only a talent for catching the essence of fleeting memories and perceptions but also a mordant touch that gives edge to memory.
121-132 out of 200 results.