I’ve been talking to elderly friends here in the Irish countryside about what they used to do when the sun shone. The answer, of course, was that they made hay.
The summer, its heat and its flowers, has finally been put to death. But the dust remains. George Wilson is covered in it, alive and dead, and as Nick told us at the beginning of the novel, the empty space around Gatsby’s dream is made up of that same dust, those same ashes.
If only I had the patience of trees; if only I let time inch me, push me, stretch me ever upward, defying gravity’s pull. My demand for instant responses mocks the good work of time. Trees chasten my fleeting desires that dart hither and thither by slowly pressing, intentionally pushing, and inevitably plodding upward.
“I cannot separate it from the porch where it occurs. The action and the space are indivisible. The action is supported by this...
God didn't put twelve months on the calendar so we could work them all.
This “summer of Hell,” to borrow Peters’ phrase, has had me in too many hospital/doctor waiting rooms. But as I was recently counting up...