I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled....
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
It would never occur to anyone at Gourmet to take the kind of sleek, witty food photographs I associate with the Life "Great Dinne...rs" series, or the crammed, decadent pictures the women's magazines specialize in. Gourmet gives you a full-page color picture of an incredibly serious rack of lamb persille sitting on a somber Blue Canton platter by Mottahedeh Historic Charleston Reproductions sitting on a stiff eighteenth-century English mahogany table from Charles Deacon & son--and it's no wonder I never cook anything from this magazine: the pictures are so reverent I almost feel I ought to pray to them.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
It must be terrible to bury someone you love in early May, when the ground is beginning to thaw and stretch and turn bright green ...and the smell of lilacs tumbles down from the bushes like a little benediction. Or in September, when the noon sun is still warm on your face but the evenings are cool enough for flannel and an extra blanket dragged up from the footboard in the middle of the night. Or at Christmas. It must be terrible at Christmas. February is a suitable month for dying. Everything around is dead, the trees black and frozen so that the appearance of green shoots two months hence seems preposterous, the ground hard and cold, the snow dirty, the winter hateful, hanging on too long.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Children are as destined biologically to break away as we are, emotionally, to hold on and protect. But thinking independently com...es of acting independently. It begins with a two-year-old doggedly pulling on flannel pajamas during a July heat wave and with parents accepting that the impulse is a good one. When we let go of these small tasks without anger or sorrow but with pleasure and pride we give each act of independence our blessing.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I sang a canto in a canton, Cunning-coo, O, cuckoo cock,... In a canton of Belshazzar To Belshazzar, putrid rock, Pillar of a putrid people....LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I was here first introduced to Joe.... He was a good-looking Indian, twenty-four years old, apparently of unmixed blood, short and... stout, with a broad face and reddish complexion, and eyes, methinks, narrower and more turned up at the outer corners than ours, answering to the description of his race. Besides his underclothing, he wore a red flannel shirt, woolen pants, and a black Kossuth hat, the ordinary dress of the lumberman, and, to a considerable extent, of the Penobscot Indian.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
While there is a lower class, I am in it; while there is a criminal element, I am of it; and while there is a soul in prison, I am... not free.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »