nancyames

31.
Richard Brautigan, “Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt”, 1970

Love’s Not The Way to Treat a Friend

Love’s not the way to treat a friend,
I wouldn’t wish that on you. I don’t
want to see your eyes forgotten
on a rainy day, lost in the endless purse
of those who can remember nothing.

Love’s not the way to treat a friend.
I don’t want to see you end up that way
with your body being poured like wounded
marble into the architecture of those who make
bridges out of crippled birds.

Love’s not the way to treat a friend.
There are so many better things for you
than to see your feelings sold
as magic lanterns to somebody whose body
casts no light.

Yes, The Fish Music

A trout-colored wind blows
through my eyes, through my fingers,
and I remember how the trout
used to hide from the dinosaurs
when they came to drink at the river.
The trout hid in subways, castles,
and automobiles. They waited patiently
for the dinosaurs to go away.
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32.

Ian Fleming, “Thunderball”, 1963

...He made a sudden turn and attacked fast toward the great fish, flashing his knife in fast offensive lunges. The giant barracuda gave a couple of lazy wags of its tail and, when Bond turned back on his course, it also turned and resumed its indolent, sneering cruise, weighing him up, choosing which bit – the shoulder, the buttock, the foot – to take first.

Bond tried to recall what he knew about big predator fish, what he had experienced with them before. The first rule was not to panic, to be unafraid. Fear communicates itself to fish as it does to dogs and horses. Establish a quiet pattern of behaviour and stick to it. Don’t show confusion or act chaotically. In the sea, untidiness, ragged behaviour, mean that the possible victim is out of control, vulnerable. So keep to a rhythm. A thrashing fish is everyone’s prey. A crab or a shell thrown upside down by a wave is offering its underside to a hundred enemies. A fish on its side is a dead fish. Bond trudged rhythmically on, exuding immunity.
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33.

Alred, Lord Tennyson, “The Idylls of the KIng”, 1859

(Guinivere to Launcelot)

She broke into a little scornful laugh:
“Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King,
That passionate perfection, my good lord
But who can gaze upon the sun in heaven?
He never spoke word of reproach to me,
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth,
He cares not for me: only here today
There gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes:
Some meddling rogue has tamper’d with him – else
Rapt, in this fancy of his Table Round,
And swearing men to vows impossible,
To make them like himself: but, friend, to me
He is all fault who has no fault at all:
For who loves me must have a touch of earth:
The low sun makes the colour: I am yours.”
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