Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead: A Novel

First, we each wrote out our own translation, in the trochaic meter more natural to Polish verse,

Martens are beautiful Animals. I could have them in my coat of arms, should the need arise.

I believe each of us sees the other Person in our own way, so we should give them the name we consider suitable and fitting. Thus we are polyonymous.

Every Night & every Morn Some to Misery are Born Every Morn & every Night Some are Born to sweet delight, Some are born to Endless Night. This is Blake’s most famous verse. It’s impossible to translate it into Polish without losing the rhythm, rhyme and childlike brevity. Dizzy tried many times, and it was like solving a charade.

V. A Light in the Rain

At that point I felt a surge of Anger, genuine, not to say Divine Anger. It flooded me from inside in a burning-hot wave. This energy made me feel great, as if it were lifting me off the ground, a mini Big Bang within the universe of my body.

After all, it could just as well not have been. There could have been nothing but grass here—large clumps of wind-lashed steppe grass and the rosettes of thistles. That’s what it could have been like. Or there could have been nothing at all—a total void in outer space. But perhaps that would have been the best option for all concerned.

At night I observe Venus, closely following the transitions of this beautiful Damsel. I prefer her as the Evening Star, when she appears as if out of nowhere, as if by magic, and goes down behind the Sun. A spark of eternal light. It is at Dusk that the most interesting things occur, for that is when simple differences fade away. I could live in ev

I interpret everything as abnormal, terrible and threatening. I see nothing but Catastrophes. But as the Fall is the beginning, can we possibly fall even lower? In any case, I know the date of my own death, and that lets me feel free.