No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
Imagine, if you can, a record producer coming to his boss with an idea for a new album; a collection of children’s songs by a black man who has been imprisoned several times, once for killing a relative in a fight over a woman, a second time for attempted murder of a white man.
The swiftness with which such a proposal and its author would be dispatched today would set a land speed record for rejection of cockamamie ideas.
The email was welcomed, when it arrived visibly but silently on the screen of Gilbert Fitzwilliams’ computer, like the first crocus of spring; small, insignificant considered by itself, a minor blessing but one to be cherished nonetheless:
It had been a rough summer; they had tried to sell the house, beginning in the spring, but had failed. Priscilla wanted to lower the price and move on, he would have just as soon stayed if no one met the price they’d agreed on, and so they sank into a state of silent hostility. If she brought it up he’d remind her that they had a deal; he didn’t want to talk about it, which she took correctly to mean he didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to do the thing that would make her happy.