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Sredni Vashtar
Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. de Ropp, who counted for nearly everything. Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin’s cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome necessary things — such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dullness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.
Mrs. de Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him “for his good” was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out — an unclean thing, which should find no entrance.
In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit-trees that it contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner lived a ragged-plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a long-secreted hoard of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe, sharp-fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day, out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion. The Woman indulged in religion once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon. Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial before the wooden hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret. Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient side of things, as opposed to the Woman’s religion, which, as far as Conradin could observe, went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals were of irregular occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. de Ropp suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day the supply of nutmeg would have given out.
The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. de Ropp was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability.
After a while Conradin’s absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the notice of his guardian. “It is not good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers,” she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. Something perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of it “gave trouble,” a deadly offence in the middle-class feminine eye.
“I thought you liked toast,” she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it.
“Sometimes,” said Conradin.
In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the hutch-god. Conradin had been wont to chant his praises, to-night he asked a boon.
“Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”
The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty corner, Conradin went back to the world he so hated.
And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the tool-shed, Conradin’s bitter litany went up: “Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”
Mrs. de Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of inspection.
“What are you keeping in that locked hutch?” she asked. “I believe it’s guinea-pigs. I’ll have them all cleared away.”
Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bidden to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining-room the door of the shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin stationed himself. He saw the Woman enter, and then he imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time. But he knew as he prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom, till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol:
Sredni Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white.
His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death.
Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful.
And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them over and over again, with one eye always on that swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patience of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the paean of victory and devastation. And presently his eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on his knees. The great polecat-ferret made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.
“Tea is ready,” said the sour-faced maid; “where is the mistress?”
“She went down to the shed some time ago,” said Conradin.
And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region, the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy burden into the house.
“Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn’t for the life of me!” exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.
Sredni Vashtar
From ‘The Chronicles of Clovis’
by Saki (H. H. Munro)
(1870 – 1916)
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Gilles Speksneijder, een weinig uitgesproken man, bekleedt een bescheiden functie in een dienstverlenende organisatie.
Als hij van de ene op de andere dag wordt gepromoveerd tot assistentverhuiscoördinator, bezwijkt hij bijna onder zijn verantwoordelijkheden en taken. De tijdsdruk neemt toe en het verhuisproces raakt vertroebeld door machtsspelletjes, vileine roddels en complotten.
Wanneer Gilles uit schimmige motieven een jonge vrouw meebrengt, een antikraakwacht die het verhuisproces dreigt te vertragen, verschuiven de verhoudingen in huize Speksneijder: terwijl Gilles naar de marge wordt gedrongen, neemt zijn vrouw steeds meer het heft in handen.
M.M. Schoenmakers werd geboren in Den Bosch (1949), studeerde af aan de Universiteit van Tilburg en vertrok in 1977 naar Suriname, waar hij werkte met indiaanse gemeenschappen in het binnenland. In 1989 keerde hij terug naar Nederland. Zijn Surinaamse jaren leidden tot vijf romans, die in de periode 1989-1998 bij De Bezige Bij verschenen. Na een lange stilte verscheen in 2015 opnieuw werk van zijn hand, de alom geprezen roman De wolkenridder. In februari 2019 verscheen de ontroerende en geestige roman De vlucht van Gilles Speksneijder.
Auteur: M.M. Schoenmakers
Titel: De vlucht van Gilles Speksneijder
Literaire roman
Taal: Nederlands
Paperback
256 pagina’s
Uitgever De Bezige Bij
2017
EAN 9789023454076
€ 21,99
# new novel
schoenmakers mm
de vlucht van Gilles Speksneijder
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Les Remorqueurs De Macchabés
Allons, Polyte, un coup de croc:
Vois-tu comme le mec ballotte.
On croirait que c’est un poivrot
Ballonné de vin qui barbote;
Pour baigner un peu sa ribote
Il a les arpions imbibés:
Mince, alors, comme il nous dégote,
Pauv’ remorqueurs de macchabés.
Allons, Polyte, au petit trot,
Le mec a la mine pâlotte:
Il a bouffé trop de sirop;
Bientôt faudra qu’on le dorlote,
Qu’on le bichonne, qu’on lui frotte
Les quatre abatis embourbés.
Vrai, dans le métier on en rote.
Pauv’ remorqueurs de Macchabés.
Allons, Polyte, pas d’accroc,
Tu pionces plus qu’une marmotte,
Nous pinterons chez le bistro:
Le nouveau dab de la gargote
A le nez comme une carotte
Pour tous les marcs qu’il a gobés.
Un verre, ça vous ravigote,
Pauv’ remorqueurs de macchabés!
ENVOI
Prince, Polyte de la flotte,
Plus boueux que trente barbets,
Nous vivons toujours dans la crotte,
Pauv’ remorqueurs de macchabés!
Marcel Schwob
(1867-1905)
Les Remorqueurs De Macchabés
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La Madone Amoureuse
Le ciel noir se piquait de torches résineuses,
Scintillantes lueurs, astres pâles d’amour.
Secouant du zénith leurs vapeurs lumineuses
En nuages d’encens au brasier du jour.
Se lustrait du vermeil bruni d’un disque pur,
Coeur jaunissant de fleur immobile et plantée
Comme une pâquerette aux mornes champs d’azur,
A travers l’infini sombre de l’étendue
La blancheur de la Vierge immense s’allongeait,
Colosse de vapeur vaguement épandue
Où le glaive éclatant de la lune plongeait.
Ce n’était plus le marbre aux arêtes précises
Où les Grecs découpaient la chair pâle des dieux,
Mais un esprit flottant en formes indécises
Et versant du brouillard vers la voûte des cieux.
Car l’idéal chrétien est fait de chair meurtrie,
Et d’orbites saignants et de membres broyés,
Tandis qu’abandonnant sa dépouille flétrie
L’âme ailée ouvre l’air de ses bras éployés.
Les dieux morts des anciens vivaient de notre vie;
Ils avaient nos amours; ils avaient nos douleurs;
Ils voyaient nos plaisirs en pâlissant d’envie
Et se vengeaient du rire en nous forçant aux pleurs.
Le Symbole vivant n’a que son existence
Dont la force idéale échappe à nos regards,
Et les martyrs en vain cloués sur leur potence
Interrogeaient l’éther avec leurs yeux hagards.
Mais l’élan passionné de la Vierge Marie
Avait noyé son âme en une ombre de chair
Faite de désirs fous, de luxure pétrie,
Où le cri de l’amour passait comme un éclair.
Cette chair transparente errait dans la pénombre,
Emergeait sous le froid de la Nuit, grelottait,
Et la Vierge trempée aux plis d’un voile sombre
Couvrait de ses deux mains son front et sanglotait.
Ses cheveux blonds coulaient en vagues dénouées
Qui ruisselaient à flots dans le fauve sillon
Des mamelles de brume à sa forme clouées
Par deux boutons puissants casqués de vermillon.
Et ses larmes roulaient en sanglantes rosées,
Jaillissant sous les cils parfumés de ses yeux
Comme un filet gonflé de leurs perles rosées,
Sa chevelure d’or tombait en plis soyeux.
Pendant qu’elle pleurait dans ses chairs cristallines,
Un nuage laiteux en panache fumait,
Fondant leur transparence en teintes opalines
Dont la neige mousseuse et légère écumait.
Et ses pâles cheveux aux couleurs effacées
Lentement noircissaient au creuset de la nuit,
Et l’or blond s’enfuyait de leurs teintes passées (5).
Ainsi que l’or mourant d’une braise s’enfuit
Ses veines se gonflaient de gouttes purpurines
Qui faisaient tressaillir ses nerfs en les baignant;
Un souffle sensuel dilatait ses narines
Et le désir perçait son coeur d’un clou saignant.
La blonde déité qui pleurait diaphane,
En cachant ses yeux bleus de ses longs doigts nacrés,
Avait pris les cheveux d’une brune profane
Et sa chair inhabile à des gestes sacrés.
Ce n’était plus la chaste et mystique Marie
Eclairée du halo pur de la Trinité,
Mais c’était une fille amoureuse, qui crie
Et gémit de désir sur sa virginité.
Elle entendait monter de langoureuses plaintes
De la vasque profonde où la Terre planait;
Le soupir attiédi des premières étreintes
En effluve d’amour vers sa bouche émanait.
Marcel Schwob
(1867-1905)
La Madone Amoureuse
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A Portrait of One: Harry Phelan Gibb
Some one in knowing everything is knowing that some one is something.
Some one is something and is succeeding is succeeding in hoping that thing.
He is suffering.
He is succeeding in hoping and he is succeeding in saying that that is something.
He is suffering, he is suffering and succeeding in hoping that in succeeding in saying that he is succeeding in hoping is something.
He is suffering, he is hoping, he is succeeding in saying that anything is something.
He is suffering, he is hoping, he is succeeding in saying that something is something.
He is hoping that he is succeeding in hoping that something is something.
He is hoping that he is succeeding in saying that he is succeeding in hoping that something is something.
He is hoping that he is succeeding in saying that something is something.
Gertrude Stein
(1874-1946)
A Portrait of One
Harry Phelan Gibb
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Le Voyage
Oh! sable
Si fin,
Qu’accable
Matin
Mon pas,
J’espère
Là-bas,
Repaire
Du jour,
Mourir!
Et le sable lui dit, en paraissant s’ouvrir:
Marche! Marche toujours!
Marcel Schwob
(1867-1905)
Le Voyage
Portrait: Félix Vallotton
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Hugo
J’ai un portrait d’Hugo, en face sur le mur,
Et quand je le regarde, et quand le vers est dur
A terminer, son oeil, et sa barbe si douce
Me donnent bon courage et les mots sous son pouce
S’alignent sans efforts et je relis ses vers
Si doux et si charmants, plus calmes que les mers.
“J’étais seul près des flots par une nuit d’étoiles;
“Pas un nuage au ciel, sur la mer pas de voiles,
“Mes yeux plongeaient plus loin que le monde réel
“Et les bois et les monts, et toute la nature
“Semblaient interroger dans un confus murmure
“Les flots des mers, les feux du ciel.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Marcel Schwob
(1867-1905)
Hugo
Mai 1881
Portrait: Félix Vallotton
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1677. Un groupe d’intellectuels publie à Amsterdam un livre intitulé Œuvres posthumes avec pour nom d’auteur : B.d.S.
Qui se cache derrière ces initiales? Bento de Spinoza, certes… mais pas seulement.
Son livre est le produit d’échanges palpitants entre les savants de toute l’Europe, de querelles entre les communautés juives et chrétiennes mal unies, d’amitiés éternelles et même d’amours déçues.
Cette fantaisie historique et philosophique, entièrement fondée sur les faits et les textes, transforme la biographie du philosophe Spinoza en un fascinant portrait d’hommes et de femmes épris de liberté, lancés dans l’aventure de la raison moderne.
Synthèse de décennies de recherches collectives, le roman de Maxime Rovere éclaire la naissance et les enjeux d’une philosophie qui n’en finit pas de nous aider à comprendre le monde, et nous avec lui.
Maxime Rovere
Le clan Spinoza
Amsterdam, 1677.
L’invention de la liberté
Littérature française
Libres Champs
560 pages
109 x 178 mm
Broché
Paru le 23/01/2019
EAN : 9782081422506
ISBN : 9782081422506
Prix : €10,00
# more books
Maxime Rovere
Le clan Spinoza
Littérature française
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Ein elsässischer Soldat im Ersten Weltkrieg entdeckt am Nachthimmel das Sternbild des Großen Burschen, das so schauderhaft ist, dass er niemandem davon erzählen kann.
Ein junger Mann, der sich in die blinde Anja verliebt hat, muss feststellen, dass ihr Apartment von oben bis unten mit Beschimpfungen bekritzelt ist. Marcel, sechzehn Jahre alt, hinterlässt auf der Toilettenwand eines Erotiklokals seine Handynummer und den Namen Suzy.
Familie Scheuch bekommt eines Tages Besuch von einem Herrn Ulrichsdorfer, der vorgibt, in ihrem Haus aufgewachsen zu sein, und einen Elektroschocker unter seinem geliehenen Anzugjackett verbirgt.
Das ganz und gar Unerwartete bricht in das Leben von Clemens J. Setz’ Figuren ein. Ihr Schöpfer erzählt davon einfühlsam, fast zärtlich. Durch Falltüren gestattet er uns Blicke auf rätselhafte Erscheinungen und in geheimnisvolle Abgründe des Alltags, man stößt auf Wiedergänger und auf Sätze, die einen mit der Zunge schnalzen lassen.
Der Trost runder Dinge ist ein Buch voller Irrlichter und doppelter Böden – radikal erzählt und aufregend bis ins Detail.
Clemens J. Setz wurde 1982 in Graz geboren, wo er Mathematik sowie Germanistik studierte und heute als Übersetzer und freier Schriftsteller lebt. 2011 wurde er für seinen Erzählband Die Liebe zur Zeit des Mahlstädter Kindes mit dem Preis der Leipziger Buchmesse ausgezeichnet. Sein Roman Indigo stand auf der Shortlist des Deutschen Buchpreises 2012 und wurde mit dem Literaturpreis des Kulturkreises der deutschen Wirtschaft 2013 ausgezeichnet. 2014 erschien sein erster Gedichtband Die Vogelstraußtrompete. Für seinen Roman Die Stunde zwischen Frau und Gitarre erhielt Setz den Wilhelm Raabe-Literaturpreis 2015.
Clemens J. Setz
Der Trost runder Dinge
Erzählungen
Erschienen: 11.02.2019
Gebunden
320 Seiten
ISBN: 978-3-518-42852-8
Suhrkamp Verlag AG
Mit Abbildungen
€ 24,00
# new books
Der Trost runder Dinge
Erzählungen
Clemens J. Setz
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Singeries
Quand je te vois penché, mon mignon, tout en nage,
Sur le croûton de pain qui te sert de joujou,
Je me repens, mon Dieu, d’avoir pris pour un page
Ce qui n’était pourtant qu’un affreux sapajou.
C’est un maki mordant ses dix doigts avec rage,
Ce faune gentillet, taillé comme un bijou,
Un ouistiti grimpant aux barreaux de sa cage,
Un macaque à poil ras, un singe en acajou.
Ton masque enluminé, sillonné de grimaces,
Semble servir d’album à croquis aux limaces
Pour crayonner l’argent de leurs chemins crochus.
Et les casques noircis qui couronnent tes ongles,
Piqués dans tes cheveux brouillés comme des jungles,
Font penser que tu dois avoir les pieds fourchus.
Marcel Schwob
(1867-1905)
Singeries
Juin 1888
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Over a career that spans four decades and thirteen studio albums with Pet Shop Boys, Neil Tennant has consistently proved himself to be one of the most elegant and stylish of contemporary lyricists.
Arranged alphabetically, One Hundred Lyrics and a Poem presents an overview of his considerable achievement as a chronicler of modern life: the romance, the break-ups, the aspirations, the changing attitudes, the history, the politics, the pain.
The landscape of Tennant’s lyrics is recognisably British in character – restrained and preoccupied with the mundane, occasionally satirical, yet also yearning for escape and theatrical release.
Often surprisingly revealing, this volume is contextualised by a personal commentary on each lyric and an introduction by the author which gives a fascinating insight into the process and genesis of writing.
Flamboyant, understated, celebratory and elegiac, Neil Tennant’s lyrics are a document of our times.
Everything I’ve ever done
Everything I ever do
Every place I’ve ever been
Everywhere I’m going to
One Hundred Lyrics and a Poem
Neil Tennant
Hardback
272 pages
English
Poetry
Published 01/11/2018
ISBN13 9780571348909
Publisher Faber & Faber Inc.
18,99 euro
# new books
One Hundred Lyrics and a Poem
Neil Tennant
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Who has not suffered grief?
In Mourning Songs, the brilliant poet and editor Grace Schulman has gathered together the most moving poems about sorrow by the likes of Elizabeth Bishop, William Carlos Williams, Gwendolyn Brooks, Neruda, Catullus, Dylan Thomas, W. H. Auden, Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, W. S. Merwin, Lorca, Denise Levertov, Keats, Hart Crane, Michael Palmer, Robert Frost, Hopkins, Hardy, Bei Dao, and Czeslaw Milosz—to name only some of the masters in this slim volume.
“The poems in this collection,” as Schulman notes in her introduction, “sing of grief as they praise life.” She notes: “As any bereaved survivor knows, there is no consolation. ‘Time doesn’t heal grief; it emphasizes it,’ wrote Marianne Moore.
The loss of a loved one never leaves us. We don’t want it to. In grief, one remembers the beloved. But running beside it, parallel to it, is the joy of existence, the love that causes pain of loss, the loss that enlarges us with the wonder of existence.”
Winner of the Poetry Society of America’s highest award, The Frost Medal, Grace Schulman is the author of seven poetry volumes as well as a book of essays and a new memoir, Strange Paradise: Portrait of a Marriage, about her life with her beloved late husband Jerome. She is a Distinguished Professor of English at Baruch College, CUNY, the former director of the Poetry Center, 92nd Street Y, and was for thirty-five years the poetry editor of The Nation.
Mourning Songs
Poems of sorrow and Beauty
Edited by Grace Schulman
Paperback
96 pages
Publisher: New Directions
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0811228665
ISBN-13: 978-0811228664
Product Dimensions: 4 x 6 inches
Price US 11.95
1 edition: May 28, 2019
# new books
Mourning Songs
Poetry
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