Such lovely rain today. The perfect compliments: a rare Susanna Clarke short story, thanks to The Morning Oil: The Dweller in High Places, and this.

photography by Federico Ferrari


What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

- T. S. E. The Wasteland

artist: Alexandre Day


Right now I am trying to shift way too many books from my double-stacked shelves, loving this lovely photostream, this group, and this man and his poetry:

A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the laboring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers,

Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.
- W. B. Yeats


March. The earth is stirring. And hands catch flares of sudden sun,while feet still wend their watery ways. Underneath, little yawns are breaking and the hopeful treck begins to spring.

photos from here