Sublime

through the yearbook carefully from cover to cover looking for him. He isn’t in any group picture or on any list of names.

Jefferson in his racist generosity allowed that some infusion of European ancestry afforded Africans somewhat greater capacity, but it is quite clear he would have found me, credibly 81 percent African, lacking. I hold instead to what W. E. B. Du Bois said: “I sit with Shakespeare and he winces not. Across the color line I move arm in arm with

I am what time, circumstance, history, have made of me, certainly, but I am, also, much more than that. So are we all. The conundrum of color is the inheritance of every American, be he/she legally or actually Black or White. It is a fearful inheritance, for which untold multitudes, long ago, sold their birthright. Multitudes are doing so, until

between an old man who looked like a receptacle of all the world’s dirt and disease and a young boy, a redhead, who would look like that man one day, if one could read, in the dullness of his eye, anything so real as a future.

malaprop.

Blur rises up his legs and torso. He’s drowning in pitch.

Je me suis prise d’une grande sympathie pour lui, sans parler du fait que je le tenais pour un de nos plus grands poètes. Mon exemplaire écorné de The Happy Birthday of Death campait sur ma table de nuit. De tous les poètes beat, Gregory était le plus jeune. Il possédait une beauté ravagée et une arrogance à la John Garfield. Il ne se prenait pas