LIT BITS V3 #303
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From: Peter Langston <psl>
Date: Mon, 30 Oct 100 03:11:31 -0800
Subject: LIT BITS V3 #303
X-Lib-of-Cong-ISSN: 1098-7649 -=[ Fun_People ]=-
Excerpted-from: LITERARY CALENDAR V3 #303
Today is Monday, 30 October 2000; on this day,
249 years ago (1751),
Richard Brinsley Sheridan (_The School for Scandal_) is born in Dublin.
189 years ago (1811),
_Sense and Sensibility: A Novel_ (in three volumes) By a Lady, is
published by Thomas Egerton. Jane Austen, who uses small pieces of
paper that can easily be slipped under a blotter in the family drawing
room if a visitor arrives, takes special pains to hide the fact that
her first novel is in print.
115 years ago (1885),
Ezra Pound--"humane, but not human" claims fellow poet e. e. cummings
-- is born in Hailey, Idaho. Gertrude Stein will write of him, "A
village explainer, excellent if you were a village, but if you were
54 years ago (1946),
Eric Kimmel is born this day in New York City and as an adult will
become a teacher and "tell stories" as he works his way across the
United States to his current home in the Northwest. His version of
the _Gingerbread Boy_ will have a nontraditional ending as will many
of the folk stories he retells for young readers. (SM)
Portrait D'une Femme
Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.
Great minds have sought you--lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
No. You preferred it to the usual thing:
One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
One average mind--with one thought less, each year.
Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
Hours, where something might have floated up.
And now you pay one. Yes, you richly pay.
You are a person of some interest, one comes to you
And takes strange gain away:
Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two,
Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves,
That never fits a corner or shows use,
Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays.
These are your riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,
Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that's quite your own.
Yet this is you.
© 2000 Peter Langston