New Critics, Feminists Phenomenology; Reader-Response critics Need no apology. There are Formalists of Russia, Structuralists of France. Give Archetypal Critics More than a glance. Marxists are strange birds, Like Speech-Act Theorists. And yet there’s no doubt Which theory is Queerest. . . . . Continue Reading »
spectral rime-frosted trees in early morning moonlight cast shadows on the pasture . . . . Continue Reading »
A bit of nonsense from several years ago. Scene 1 Mr Faust sitting in a big chair, with Little Faust on his lap, reading. Mrs Faust sitting in another chair, knitting or something. Mr Faust: And I heard him exclaim As he drove out of sight Merry Christmas to all And to all a good night. (Closing . . . . Continue Reading »
One day, Henry just quit. He had soldered wires for he didn’t know what in the back room of the Magnavox plant for thirteen years, and enough was enough. His eyes itched, the watery coffee from the machine was bitter, the pinups in the maintenance room never changed, and he had grown to hate . . . . Continue Reading »
Once there was a little bumblebee who was very clumsy. When he flew, he didn’t say “Buzz,” like most bees. He said “Zubb.” When he aimed for a flower, he often missed and found himself trying to suck nectar from a lamppost or a fireplug. And he was always tripping over . . . . Continue Reading »
Eugene Peterson’s latest book, the first of a five-volume spiritual theology, takes its title from some lovely lines of Gerald Manley Hopkins: Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men’s faces. . . . . Continue Reading »
Here is a story written by my son, Christian, age 14. Tramps, as you probably well know, are usually not very likable creatures. I say “creatures” because I, myself, have often been in doubt as to the species ?Eor gender ?Eof most tramps that I meet. Tramps, like trolls, eggs, and . . . . Continue Reading »
hordes rushing at me armed to the teeth from the future . . . . Continue Reading »
Evensong A full moon rises from behind The topmost branches of a tree, Then slants across the sky. A pheasant?s shriek joins distant shouts, The barks and laughter from the park, On the cooling air. Then comes the silence of the night: Not the silence of the dead, But too alive for sound, Like a . . . . Continue Reading »
her bandanna blue through the cattails by the pond in the green pasture in the pond morning clouds and sun flecks of moonlight like fireflies ?E the ripples of the pond across her chair shafts of sunlight through the lace curtain . . . . Continue Reading »
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