'Sometimes, on a very clear night,' the BFG said, 'and if I is swiggling my ears in the right direction,' - and here he swivelled his great ears upwards so they were facing the ceiling - 'if I is swiggling them like this and the night is very clear, I is sometimes hearing faraway music coming from the stars in the sky.'
A queer little shiver passed through Sophie's body. She sat very quiet, waiting for more.
-From The BFG
Photo courtesy of Ben Arrowsmith
When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don't improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease in incurable.
- John Steinbeck
From Travels with Charley: In Search of America
- Scott Russell Sanders
The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world more habitable and humane. And these qualities have little to do with success as our culture defined it.
- David Orr
Some one had sneaked up on Feller. Crouched in the ditch, bent over the mouth of the culvert, his hands in its cold gurgle of water, Feller felt eyes.
He whirled and saw shoes. On the roadbed above him were shoes with turned-up toes and zigzag tread. (That track, he had seen that running track this summer on the road past his cabin.) From the shoes rose short, muscular legs thick-furred with brown hair. The legs ended in red shorts. Above the shorts was a blue T-shirt with a broad tongue of sweat up its center. The bound ends of the two brown braids of hair jerked Feller's eyes up to a woman's face.
She was the ugliest woman Feller had ever seen. Her face was wide and flat, punctured in its middle by small, pinched-together blue eyes - a shovel held up to the sky with two .22 slugs shot through its center. Though he had never seen this woman, it was clear to Feller that she was the reason he had never married.
"What is it you're doing?" the woman asked.
Feller's eyes flickered to his basket of traps on the bank. Her eyes followed his.
"Setting a trap," Feller said. From disuse his voice croaked like a magpie. Living alone in the woods, Feller did not have to talk to many people. He liked it that way.
- Will Weaver
From The Trapper
A Color of the Sky
BY TONY HOAGLAND
Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.
I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.
Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.
Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,
which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.
Last night I dreamed of X again.
She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I’m glad.
What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.
Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;
overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,
dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,
so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It’s been doing that all week:
and throwing it away,
and making more.
It makes one all right, though you hadn’t thought of it,
A sound like the sound of the sky on fire, like Armageddon,
Whistling and crackling, the explosions of sunlight booming
As the huge mass of gas rages into the emptiness around it.
It isn’t a sound you are often aware of, though the light speeds
To us in seconds, each dawn leaping easily across a chasm
Of space that swallows the sound of that sphere, but
If you listen closely some morning, when the sun swells
Over the horizon and the world is still and still asleep,
You might hear it, a faint noise so far inside your mind
That it must come from somewhere, from light rushing to darkness,
Energy burning towards entropy, towards a peaceful solution,
Burning brilliantly, spontaneously, in the middle of nowhere,
And you, too, must make a sound that is somewhat like it,
Though that, of course, you have no way of hearing at all.
The Sound of the Sun
by George Bradley
The Sound of the Sun
by George Bradley
After fantastic visits with close friends and family, it is good to be back north. I do not hold the sentiments expressed below - only a love for exceptional writing.
The sheriff was standing close now, as if to get Olaf's attention.
"You've been farming here in Hubbard County how long, fifty years?
Olaf blinked. "Fifty-three years."
"And I've been the sheriff over half that time. I know you, I know the boys. None of you has ever broken a law that I can think of, not even the boys. The town folk respect that..."
Olaf's vision cleared and something in him hardened at the mention of town folk. He had never spent much time in town, did not like it there very much. And he believed that, though farmers and townspeople did a lot of business together, it was a business of necessity; that in the end they had very little in common. He also had never forgotten how the town folk treated Inge when she first came to Hubbard County.
"What I mean is," the sheriff continued, "you don't want to start breaking the law now when you're seventy-five years old."
"Seventy-eight," Olaf said.
"Seventy-eight," the sheriff repeated.
They were all silent. The sheriff mopped his forehead again. The silence went on for a long time.
- Will Weaver
From A Gravestone Made of Wheat