Catharine Savage Brosman

I’m seated at Gautreau’s, uptown, with Laine,fine student, now good friend. Obliged to bookan early hour—few choices in this bane,the Covid sequel—we take time to look at wine lists, menus, chatting; appetite’saroused thereby, and memories. How wellshe wrote, with industry and her . . . . Continue Reading »

The patroness of those beset by miceand rats, she stands before red tapestry.Blue floor tiles feature her preferred device:crude mousetraps, set to spring. Her sanctityis symbolized in halo, shepherd’s crook,the habit of an Augustinian nun,and downcast eyes, to read her open book.Still, mice will . . . . Continue Reading »

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 »