Catharine Savage Brosman

His attributes are few—a book, a rodwith three large hooks. But it cannot conveythe tortures, multiple, endured for God—the rack, a gridiron, burnt flesh wrenched away. Portrayed in deacon’s vestments, Vincent showsno fear. He does not see the butterfliesthat form the border. Why the . . . . Continue Reading »

As lovely as a girl aged twenty-twocan be—intelligent, slim, self-possessed,and beautiful. It’s Florida; it’s newto her, like marriage. Smiling, smartly dressed, she poses, shaded by a palm, besidea terra cotta jar. The honeymoonhas just begun, the cattleya fresh, the bridestill radiant. . . . . Continue Reading »

The movers get it out—a Steinway grand,half-rolled, half-carried to the street. A crowd,molecular, implicit, is at handalready. Music hovers meanwhile, proudto weave into the day its ideal strand.A pianist appears, hirsute and browedlike Rubinstein. Who would not understandthis may be Art? He . . . . Continue Reading »

The skies are sick, a feverish, jaundiced gray,malodorous with foul effluviadissembling skyline and the light of day—crepuscular, infernal opera. . . . . Continue Reading »