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1 " I never knew him. We both knew this place, apparently, this literal small backwater, looked at it long enough to memorize it, our years apart. How strange. And it's still loved, or its memory is (it must have changed a lot). Our visions coincided--'visions' is too serious a word--our looks, two looks: art 'copying from life' and life itself, life and the memory of it so compressed they've turned into each other. Which is which? Life and the memory of it cramped, dim, on a piece of Bristol board, dim, but how live, how touching in detail --the little that we get for free, the little of our earthly trust. Not much. About the size of our abidance along with theirs: the munching cows, the iris, crisp and shivering, the water still standing from spring freshets, the yet-to-be-dismantled elms, the geese. "
― Elizabeth Bishop , Geography III
2 " One has to commit a painting,' said Degas,'the way one commits a crime. "
3 " Dreams were the worst. Of course I dreamed of foodand love, but they were pleasant rather than otherwise. But then I'd dream of thingslike slitting a baby's throat, mistaking itfor a baby goat. I'd havenightmares of other islandsstretching away from mine, infinitiesof islands, islands spawning islands,like frogs' eggs turning into polliwogsof islands, knowing that I had to liveon each and every one, eventually,for ages, registering their flora,their fauna, their geography. "
4 " --Suddenly the bus driverstops with a jolt,turns off his lights.A moose has come out ofthe impenetrable woodand stands there, looms, rather,in the middle of the road.It approaches; it sniffs atthe bus's hot hood.Towering, antlerless,high as a church,homely as a house(or, safe as houses).A man's voice assures us'Perfectly harmless. . . .'Some of the passengersexclaim in whispers,childishly, softly,'Sure are big creatures.''It's awful plain.''Look! It's a she!'Taking her time,she looks the bus over,grand, otherworldly.Why, why do we feel(we all feel) this sweetsensation of joy?'Curious creatures,'says our quiet driver,rolling his r's.'Look at that, would you.'Then he shifts gears.For a moment longer,by craning backward,the moose can be seenon the moonlit macadam;then there's a dimsmell of moose, an acridsmell of gasoline. "
5 " I often gave way to self-pity.“Do I deserve this? I suppose I must.I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Was therea moment when I actually chose this?I don’t remember, but there could have been.”What’s wrong about self-pity, anyway?With my legs dangling down familiarlyover a crater’s edge, I told myself“Pity should begin at home.” So the morepity I felt, the more I felt at home. "
6 " I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house,my crypto-dream-house, that crooked boxset up on pilings, shingled green,a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?),protected from spring tides by a palisadeof—are they railroad ties?(Many things about this place are dubious.)I’d like to retire there and do nothing,or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms:look through binoculars, read boring books,old, long, long books, and write down useless notes,talk to myself, and, foggy days,watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.At night, a grog à l’américaine. "