Saturday, May 16, 2015
It was the first time in his life that Edgardo had slept under the same roof as a woman. Although their beds were not close, he thought he could hear her breath and heartbeat. Even when the mind is not willing, and the body is not willing either, desire awakens and sin takes over your soul. He tossed and turned under the blanket, unable to sleep. The night silence had turned into a racket. The swish of the waves along the shore had become a waterfall, and the cry of an owl had become a call of death. The faint flame of the oil lamp squashed the shadows into the floor, awakening glistening eyes and fragments of stars.
Edgardo started to pray as he had been taught to by monks when he could not sleep for love or money. However, Kallis's breath and heartbeat seemed to grow louder and dance around him. He continued to repeat his litany to chase away thoughts and images.
Roberto Tiraboschi, The Eye Stone: The First Medieval Noir About The Birth Of Venice, (2014)
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Siegfried Sassoon, engaged in polishing his golf clubs, looked at this 'modest and ingratiating' visitor, taking in his occasional stammer, 'border Welsh' accent and gushing idolatry. 'The Death Bed', [Wilfred] Owen said, was the finest poem in the book; its author would have liked this, wishing to be known for his lyrical works rather than his satires. The visitor said that he too was a poet. What, Sassoon wondered, could this 'interesting little chap' have written?
Max Egremont, Some Desperate Glory: The First World War The Poets Knew (2014)