Mélancolie

“—The books I read are the ones I knew and loved when I was a young man and to which I return as you do to old friends: the Old Testament, Dickens, Conrad, Cervantes, Don Quixote—I read that every year, as some do the Bible. Flaubert, Balzac—he created an intact world of his own, a bloodstream running through twenty books—Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Shakespeare. I read Melville occasionally and, of the poets, Marlowe, Campion, Jonson, Herrick, Donne, Keats, and Shelley. I still read Housman. I’ve read these books so often that I don’t always begin at page one and read on to the end. I just read one scene, or about one character, just as you’d meet and talk to a friend for a few minutes.”

“They witnessed her destruction,
Then were left to wonder why,
She saw nothing but darkness,
Though the stars shone in her eyes,
But maybe they’d forgotten,
When they failed to see the cracks,
That a star’s light shines the brightest,
When it’s starting to collapse.”