When all one can do is, read,
the rapport with texts resem-
bles a kind of cold war of mu-
tually assured destruction in
unstable equilibrium, the rap-
port never having been intend-
ed for polarity so nakedly un-
enriched.
I remember favoring
Sea Island cotton, but with a
tennis collar. It was then, I
happened to discover slavery,
from its genealogy in luxury.
(Who knew it were bilateral)?
(Who knew it were bilateral)?
Horace looming. Oak ostensib-
ly opaque, taking one by one.
Inside, within that grasp was
Ishmael, Melville's wondering
seaman, his balsam harvester.
These were guys who knew how
to end a book. So much easi-
er than slavery. I got email
from Apple, about their one-
day sale on luxury. Suppose,
as they say, it were Friday.
One could read Benito Cereno
in a glossy pleasure-screen.
Timing is everything. I met
this text by curricular co-
incidence, in the year that
Styron's Confessions of Nat
Turner came out. A ferment,
in the planet, percolating,
in the pulse, made personal
the feeling for a language,
rising. Timing, come again.
These were guys who knew how
to end a book. So much easi-
er than slavery. I got email
from Apple, about their one-
day sale on luxury. Suppose,
as they say, it were Friday.
One could read Benito Cereno
in a glossy pleasure-screen.
Timing is everything. I met
this text by curricular co-
incidence, in the year that
Styron's Confessions of Nat
Turner came out. A ferment,
in the planet, percolating,
in the pulse, made personal
the feeling for a language,
rising. Timing, come again.
Herman Melville
Billy Budd and
The Piazza Tales
Doubleday & Company
Dolphin Books, 1961©
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