"Bruce Holland Rogers - A Common Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rogers Bruce Holland)

Essential Oils-are wrung-

The Attar from the Rose

Be not expressed by Suns-alone-

It is the gift of Screws-

"There's a lot packed into the eight lines of this poem," he said, "and we've already talked about how it
seems to be about the poems themselves. But you can think about this as a wider metaphor, too. Attar
isn't expressed by suns. That is, you don't get essential oils, you don't get the essence of reality by waiting
around for it. You have to squeeze it out. Getting the essential oils out is tough on the rose, but it's the
only way."
"And thinking a lot about death is a way of squeezing," said Randal.
"I can enjoy life without thinking about death all the time," another student said. "I agree with Chrissie.
These poems are such downers. I don't like being depressed."
Julian thought of Von Trepl's dialogue with Death. Don't blame me for the anguish you're feeling,
Death told the Plowman of Bohemia. Your anguish is your own fault. If you had restrained your love for
your wife, you'd be free of sorrow over her death. The greater the love, while you hold it, the greater
your pain in the end. Unpleasure follows pleasure.
Anna was not dead, but she was already lost to Julian. He had sought out the old German text when
the tumor had overtaken the speech centers of her brain. She still recognized Julian, but she couldn't
speak. The bridge of words between them had burned, and there were things that still needed saying,
would always need saying. Holding her hand as she lay watching him was not enough.
But he didn't mention The Plowman of Bohemia to the seminar. Why bother? It was all just words.
Dickinson, too, just words from the dead. Empty, empty. The more he had studied dead words, the
more dead they had become. It was the words of the living that mattered, and those had run out. He
didn't know if the dead words of literature would ever have anything to do with him again.
"There's a poem I read last night," Randal said, "that I think fits. It's 1100." He found it and began to
read.
Julian's attention drifted to the window again. Was that a cat in the tree? But it was gone, the round
head vanishing almost as soon as Julian had made out the shape.
The last Night that She lived

It was a Common Night

Except the Dying-- this to Us

Made Nature different

We noticed smallest things--

Things overlooked before

By this great light upon our Minds

Italicized-- as 'twere.

The young man's voice droned on as the snow fell outside the window. The words blended and fell in
on one another and his voice blended and mixed with the voice of the departmental secretary as she was