If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
The Australian High Court doesn’t need an interior at all, only an internal façade, because the power which that court embodies – far from being impregnable – is akin to that of Santa Claus…
Conceive this moment / come to understand it(’)s history / soldiers shove a tray of olives / under the door…
It begins when the first sunlight shines on the slab. Prometheus is a Titan. To eat his entire liver is hard work for the eagle.
Seeking to regain some ground, the health secretary promised tests for all essential workers (not just health workers), but on its first day the website offering appointments was over-subscribed in under two minutes.
Melancholy is a condition unsuited to a pandemic. Like ennui, it is an ailment born of stability. The strong light of catastrophe withers it.
Adieu, farewell, earth’s bliss; / This world uncertain is; / Fond are life’s lustful joys; / Death proves them all but toys
What, exactly, is boredom? It is a deeply unpleasant state of unmet arousal: we are aroused rather than despondent, but, for one or more reasons, our arousal cannot be met or directed.
The boy walks slowly across the wasteland, a lone figure—eyes in shadow, looking vaguely at his feet, but knowing, somehow, where he is going.
Not long after he arrived in Machilipatnam, Thomas Bowrey began to wonder what it was that the people of Machilipatnam were smoking.
Dorothy Parker lost her job as Vanity Fair theater critic on January 11, 1920, in the tea room of the Plaza Hotel. Parker must have known there was trouble brewing as she sat down across from editor Frank Crowninshield.
As an Advent rumination, I’d like to consider El Caganer. In the accumulated cultural esoterica of the Christmas season, from the horned and fearsome demon…
The dream I had before waking up this morning: / A cat jumping up to the sky
It is a repeat of 2014 when yellow umbrellas bloomed across the city. Now someone says all protesters are rioters, disrupting Hong Kong’s daily routine…
Two books about solitary poets travelling the Mediterranean and writing poems came my way within a relatively short period of time; it made sense to treat them within the same space.
The cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets in the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at Inchicore sightseers…
Perched on a desolate island in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard — 1,500 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle — sits the settlement of Smeerenburg.
Whitman needed not a mere celebrity endorsement, not just an appreciative aesthete, but a lover in Russia; a passionate, devoted reader who would accept him without judgment.