Sublime

Wally Brown

A lonely girl living in a world surrounded only by ghosts. Nothing reminded her of her own life more.

By summer Scott and Ernest were seeing more and more of each other, occasionally at the home of Gertrude Stein.

The essay ends in a kind of dream—with the image of a plush red curtain clasped and crushed in grief. And we’re happy to follow Woolf there, in part, because of that dash in her opening sentence, which denotes a passage from the dream-fugue of sickness, depression, and undirected reading into the dirigible madness of writing.

Then he smiled fondly, as if at a memory; it occurred to him that he was nearly sixty years old and that he ought to be beyond the force of such passion, of such love. But he was not beyond it, he knew, and would never be. Beneath the numbness, the indifference, the removal, it was there, intense and steady; it had always been there. In his youth h

My father had not so much left us as completed, made visible, an absence that had been present among us all along.

I miss and love with all my purple fist a strange girl from a flamboyant and frightening family, in many ways a flamboyant and frightening girl, perched high in the crow’s nest of the Frequent and Vigorous vessel, scanning gray electrical expanses for the lonely spout of a legitimate telephone call.

In this derelict place, Harris allowed his soul to unfold in a poignant ode to the universe.