WORDS AND LETTERS
I hate you, mosquito.
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Sometimes, like now, when I look out of my window and see the shafts of sun, landing on tree and leaf and glade, and hear the song of a bird, I thank God, or someone very like God, that this is all I need – an old desk, a few words on my screen, an open field, the chirruping of children from below. It makes me happy.
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Is it possible to fall in love because of a sentence?
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I dislike the hyphen. There it sits in the middle of those names that are double-barrelled (itself a hyphenated word): the Bowler-Tomkinsons, the Sun-Tans.
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My father died six weeks ago. It’s funny to think that his nose, his hair, his bones, his sinews, the way he made his tea, is now no more. We are a short arc in the dark sky – emerging mysteriously, disappearing like a line chalked on blackboard.
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I had a ribbon. I loved it so much that I brought it with me everywhere, wore it in my hair, tied it around my favourite books.
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Today it was as though I received a visit from a tall and shimmering lady, whose gown was an incandescent red and whose robes bore the fullness of Time. I knew, I just knew, that every bit of poetry in this world has received her touch, and that everyone who has ever felt a drop of inspiration has beheld her face.
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In some countries, it is still possible to buy books with the pages uncut.
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I looked at the word, and the word looked at me.
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Freedom is in me.
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I am translating several poems. That is to say, I am translating them from one language to another, and not from poetry to prose, or from poetry to screenplay, or for that matter from sonnet form to iambic pentameter, or indeed from poetry that rhymes to poetry that does not.
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Wait. For goodness’ sake, where are you rushing off to? Which appointment are you late for, which special someone must you see, which bus must you absolutely not miss? Why so keen to get to the next moment? This moment can’t be that bad, can it?
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