Best Consumed in Contemporary Moonlight (Poetry of Falling Frames Book 1)

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These poems are a great ticket, existing as tremendous short scripts for the films she directs in our heads. In her quiet looking glass we glimpse worlds as well-constructed as dioramas, both surreal and domestic, a museum of mice eggs, beautiful sometimes wounded children, a crown of tiny pinecones, a tethered owl , and mushrooms that rise up like ghost fruit , a place where fireflies are strung up and dangle by the glass walls.

This collection charms, ravages, and dazzles. Her poems oscillate between the twin poles of wonder and anxiety, nostalgia and dread. Objects and images repeat with relentless intensity. Teeth—those indestructible relics of childhood—appear again and again, and even Paris, a recurring haven for the poet is, in the end, a city of catacombs filled with skulls and bones. With a nod to Dorothy and Oz, and to Alice and her looking glass, McGookey has constructed a world that centers on children, but it is a world transfigured by grief.

Motherhood, long a province of fairy tales and folklore is privileged in these poems, but it is a knife that cuts two ways. First imprisioned in , Chiha Kim was sentenced to death in Worldwide efforts to save him were begun in Japan, and his sentence was commuted in following the assassination of Park. Heart's Agony gathers peotry form all phases of his career, including poems that led to his imprisonment and torture and those written from prison. This is not the case with Chiha Kim. Through car rides with Andy Warhol, temporary tattoos of Frida Kahlo, and long dinners with Joseph Cornell, we walk hand-in-hand through a paper museum where what inspires intersects with our regular lives.

Hourglass Museum offers a dazzling selection of poems inspired by artwork and artists that explores personal relationships and the struggle emotionally, financially, and spiritually of living a creative life. Agodon understands the importance of how art influences our lives and how we balance delicately realizing that we only have so much time to live and create. She is also the author of Small Knots and the chapbook, Geography Kelli Russell Agodon is one of these poets.

Lyrical, intelligent, magical and honest, the poems are both of this world and out of this world. Her uniquely true and mystical voice is like a glass of pure water: Her poems are an intense vision of the power of art to heal, to help us understand ourselves and our world. There is much striving in this powerful, engaging book: Agodon invokes artists as disparate as Kahlo and Cornell, Picasso and Pollock, as a way into the world she creates for us in her deft and musical poems. Reading these poems is a joy. Lucidly translated here by Richard B.

Clark, it remains one of the most widely-admired and elegant of Zen writings, and is as relevant today as it was when it was written.

Best Consumed in Contemporary Moonlight by Daniel Buinac on Apple Books

She has received prestigious poetry. He holds an M. He is author of The Horses: He is author of Reading the Sphere: She taught and coordinated the Korean program as well as serving as Chair of the Center for Korean Studies. She has been co-translating modern Korean poetry and fiction into English. Many of her translations have appeared in magazines and journals in the U.

She is the recipient of Order of Culture Merit from Korean goverment. They uniquely prove Jorge Luis Borges's enlightened dictum: Moon's poems are nature, nation, city, woman; she becomes these entities as wind, revolution, house window, shivering breasts. The title poem shows Moon, the immerser, the impersonator, the change-of-state artist: I must be the wind.

There are many doors. I want to fling each one open. I want it to tremble. I want to pick. It is lovely once again to enrich American poetry with Moon's bewitchingly fresh verse. You catch her, but before you know she has disappeared in transformation: I want to vanish. Hear her in the temple bell, see her dying alone in a muddy puddle or living in a night donkey without a moon. Even as this lowly domestic beast she triumphs: Borges at 80 New Directions.

I want to write poems like that, writes Moon Chung-hee. Here love is violent and suffered , an encysted stone… wedged in the heart, and defiance trembles the soul: Dress up for men, you say? Chung-hee casts off the watch and mink stole , and exclaims: I want to be a free dancer from now on. The colorful characters who populate these stories live in Buffalo, NY but they will be readily recognizable to everyone. Peter Johnson is the founder and editor of The Prose Poem: Selected by Pattiann Rogers as the winner of the Sixth Annual White Pine Press Poetry Prize, these lyric poems convey the emotional life of the artist and show him as deeply human: Stephen Frech has published widely in magazines and journals.

He lives in Chicago. Although Baird has been one of the Buffalo area's most highly regarded and widely published poets over the past three and a half decades , In Advance of All Parting is her first full-length collection. Half a lifetime in the making, this book is well worth the wait. Ansie Baird is Poet in Residence and a part-time English teacher at The Buffalo Seminary, a non-sectarian secondary school in Buffalo, where she has taught for the past thirty-one years.

She has also taught for Just Buffalo Literary Center in their Writers In Education program for the past twenty two years, conducting workshops in elementary, middle and high schools in the Buffalo area. Ansie Baird has made herself and us wait a long time but In Advance of All Parting is well worth the wait. Musically elegant and inventive, understated and passionate, the poems give us a profound glimpse into how the events of a life can form a center of gravity that fixes the self in its force field.

There's a cold, truth-telling clarity about them that makes them as unsettling as they are beautiful. Ansie Baird has created a richly-drawn world in which this elemental drama plays out, and the result is vivid, startling poems in which pain has left its indelible tracks.

This I find happening with Ansie Baird's poems. In Advance of All Parting is composed of flashes and facets of a life as seen through the prism of older age, clear-sighted and sardonic. Written as a series of montages, this novel, a rare and powerful tale set in the former Soviet republic of Lithuaniafirst Soviet-occupied state to demand and win its independence after a violent confrontation with the Red Army in with imagination, intimacy, and insight of the human consequences of rapid change in the Baltic States.

Mayo's American, Paul Rood, vows to bring Walt Whitman's Song of Myself to Lithuanians, yet when he sits with Vilma, his interpreter, on the bank of the Nemunas River to make the translation, the stories she tells him of Lithuania consume all their time and seem truer than any rendering of Whitman. What they finally translate are stories drawn from Lithuania's deep well of myth, folklore, and histories of the human heart. Magical, stark, and prophetic, In Lithuanian Wood is a captivating and visionary portrait of a country, a peopleworldvital transition, truly stories of our time.

This book collects poems previously published in limited edition chapbooks and uncollected work. Spanning twenty-five years in St. John's career, the work reflects the progression of a major voice in American letters in poems that pre-date his first collection, Hush, to those that follow the publication of his selected poems in In earlier poems reflecting the decadence of their times to recent work that embodies the world in which we presently live, St.

John's fresh imagery draws the reader into elegant poems that resonate with the mysteries of life. The mood is one of pain, tension, and urgency, but there is finally the experience and the pleasure of what Mr. The New Yorker calls his poetry, "Expressive, gestural, and image laden, St. John's lines fairly hum with the pleasure of their making. John's work as that of " John's poems evoke cryptic encounters in an unltramodern, often European setting. The mood is one of pain, tension, and urgency, but there is finally the experience and pleasure of what Mr.

John calls 'the most graceful of misunderstandings. Santiago, Chile, September , this novel is without a doubt, one of our most significant portrayals of the convulsive environment that is today's Latin America. We needed this novel. The brutal fascist assault against the Chilean people has provoked an endless array of studies, essays and even defenses of such behavior.

But we really needed to have in our hands this fresh, ironic narrative text filled with more comprehension than hatred and resentment towards a sector of Santiago's politicized middle class which, with its romantic escapades, its problems, its confidence in the future, had to confront a reality that was deteriorating day by day before its very eyes. Spanning the years since the publication of Heartbeat Geography: John Brandi was born in Los Angeles in Since , he has been awarded residencies by the state arts councils of Alaska, Arkansas, California, Montana, Nevada, New York and New Mexico to teach in schools, prisons, and homes for the physically and mentally disabled.

Author of more than thirty books of poetry, essays and modern American haiku, he has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Witter Bynner Foundation, and the Djerassi Foundation. His poems have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies and have been translated into Spanish and Italian.

As a visual artist he has exhibited his paintings and collages worldwide. It's what's made his poetry one of the solid bodies of work that's emerged from the North American West since the 60's. His tradition is that of the spiritual mendicant, the perpetual wanderer, the seeker who travels the raw paths of experience in search of the world's wisdoms. Her un-redacted revelations lead to extraordinary discoveries - epitomized by these words of direct address to her mother: Her work appears in Crazyhorse, Indiana Review, Jubilat , and elsewhere.

And the answers she offers, in both poetry and prose, in lyrical meditations and stories and erasures, build a bridge to the lost world of her Korean ancestors, where families feed on absence, dreaming of reunification. This is our shared homeland. Her work is a painful, eloquent reminder about how dividing a country also divides families and selves. This anthology offers a glimpse into the life of laborers in contemporary China, a virtually unknown world to those outside of it, yet one that informs the lives of everyone on the planet.

The thirty poets presented here constitute a range of ages and experience, born from the late s to the s. They have worked in coalmines, warehouses, construction sites, print shops, dry cleaners, and on assembly lines in every kind of factory. These poems present powerful, heartfelt descriptions of the rarely seen world that produces the products that go onto the shelves of stores across the world.

Just as evident is the talent and tenacity of these brave writers. Eleanor Goodman is a writer and translator. It redraws the boundaries of working-class poetry for the new millennium by incorporating at its center issues like migration, globalization, and rank-and-file resistance. Women Poets of China spans twenty-five hundred years of writing by women. These are voices that were most often left out of the official anthologies and represent a hidden tradition that deserves a wider audience. This landmark anthology contains work from the Book of Songs c.

Michael Farman is a retired Electronics Engineer. Early in his career he studied Mandarin at the School of Oriental and African Studies, London University, but began translating Chinese classic and ancient poetry comparatively late in life. His translations have since appeared frequently in literary and translation journals and several anthologies including the Tang Poems. She has also published two books of translated poems by Chinese women, most recently Willow, Wine, Mirror, Moon , and three Buddhist novels set in an imagined historical China.

Every poem here offers a wonderful sense of the world of Chinese women in general, and Chinese women poets in particular. The Suspect uses the third person narrator to create a series of poems that demand to be read and understood from inside the main character's head. As Lithuania struggles to rebuild after a fifty-year occupation, street crime, paranoia, and suspicion about people's past in that other reality-that of communism-continues to hang over daily life.

Martinaitis taps into the collective unconscious of the moment and delivers a new persona to suit the times. As readers, we are called upon to live a type of virtual reality and negotiate K.

Having come of age in a totalitarian regime, K. After half a century of cultural, and political isolation, of foreign occupation, of censorship of the press coupled with an active propaganda machine, in the nineties Lithuanians were propelled into the information age. The changed happened seemingly overnight, leaving many people adrift, unable to adapt to a new way of life, and most importantly, to a new way of thinking. People's inner selves, which they'd repressed their entire lives in order to ensure their personal safety and the safety of their families from Soviet repressions, began to leach out.

For some this was a freeing, enlightening process; for others it was terrifying. Haunted by his past and bewildered by his present, K. This collection of poems evokes our darkest moments of street panic and maintains a tension throughout that keeps the reader feeling as though he were about to be jumped. In Laima Vince's wonderful translation, this poetry is sharp, comic, salty, yet at the same time overflowing with compassion and tenderness.

It creates a world of pain, but also of love. And it is an exhilerating pleasure to read. He has an excellent understanding of his country where the ancient, practically prehistoric, culture of the village collides catastrophically with the provocative urban reality of today's cities.

A fine irony, a dark humor and truth are the principle beauties of this work, as poem after poem witnesses to the Soviet past, to the long shadow of repression that the character K. Marcelijus Martinaitis is a poet, essayist, and translator. He is a major poet and is well known in Lithuania as a public figure in the fight for the restoration of the independent state of Lithuania since His work has been translated into many European languages. Incorporating the improvisational and open-form techniques being pioneered at Black Mountain College, he developed an intimate, endearing and enduring body of work.

At the core of his craft, is a person directly addressing the world. Pondering the eternal subjects, his style is both forthright and graceful. The spare phrasing blossoms with meaning, until in its simplicity it is simply profound. When I moved to New York City in , his voice was one of those that said, to a then young poet, here are ways to do it, here are ways to get the work of life and the work of poetry done.

Joel walks, talks, loves, breathes, is so completely alive here. How lucky we are again. Flesh and blood and breath and breathing are singed and singeing in his unveiling poetic fire. In his poetry, Oppenheimer explored domesticity and intimacy, using line breaks to create tension. Requited and otherwise, domestic and wild. Collected Later Poems of Joel Oppenheimer includes 49 previously unpublished poems. Oppenheimer also authored the nonfiction books Marilyn Lives! I think his poems are a Godsend to us all. In their wide-ranging wit and passion for language, their surprising juxtapositions of the ordinary and the exalted, and their willingness to foreground doubt in a search for meaning, they show a fellowship with the work of Dickinson that is deep without ever being solemn.

Here is a fresh, distinctive voice that is consistently engaging and surprising. A black bra takes on the power of a celestial body--"no light can escape from it. Agodon's genius is in the interweaving of God and Vodka, bees and bras, astronomy and astrology, quotes from Einstein and Emily Dickinson, a world in which gossip rags in checkout lines and Neruda hum in the writer's mind with equal intensity. Self-help mantras resurface throughout as a reminder of the ways modern society chooses to deal with today's tragedies, a reminder that a cup of tea and a positive attitude are not always enough when struggling with life's bigger problems.

Part of the book deals with the speaker's ambivalence towards marriage and religion, part with the death of the speaker's father, and part with the same themes that Emily Dickinson dwelled on: This is a book that will linger in your mind with its humor, its honesty and insight, and its fervent belief in poetry and play. In case of accident, call a priest,. Just the priest please. Face the direction from which you came. The Making of Peace.

Currently, Kelli lives in a seaside community in the Northwest with her family. Visit her website at: The poems, collected from out-of-print books, chapbooks and uncollected work spanning 50 years, form a companion to his recent Stealing Sugar From The Castle: A few have never appeared outside of their original magazine publications. Robert Bly was born on December 23, , in Madison, Minnesota.

He attended Harvard University and received his M. As a poet, editor, and translator, Bly has had a profound impact on the shape of American poetry. He is the author of more than thirty books of poetry, including Stealing Sugar from the Castle: Norton, ; Talking into the Ear of a Donkey: Poems ; Reaching Out to the World: Poems for Men ; and News of the Universe Among his many books of translations are Lorca and Jiminez: Collected Conversations and Interviews He has been lighting up American poetry for more than sixty years.

His labor and delight, early and late, is now clearly shown to be the demonstration that all human and nonhuman lives, contexts, and relations are linked by metaphor, that odd mode of understanding by psychological projection and sensory imagination. Like the deathbed edition of Leaves of Grass , this collection is a monument, not to self but to us. It also includes a generous selection from his four thousand pages of journals previously unpublished in translation and an intimate forward by his widow, Bodil Cappelen. His Luminous Spaces is the life work of a restless mind and a troubled heart seeking insight into the spiritual, alert to the bleakness and beauties of nature, and intimate with philosophy and literature.

His prose is rich, his poetry finely cut. Here is writing born of the need to know and the will to survive. Like the conch of which he wrote, his writings record the building of a soul to speak from solitude. Hauge lived nearly all of his life in his native Ulvik in Western Norway.

A largely self-educated man, he earned his living as a farmer, orchardist, and gardener on a small plot. His poetry is now seen as one of the main achievements of twentieth-century Norwegian literature. Olav Grinde is a writer and translator whose works include Night Open: Selected Poems of Rolf Jacobsen. He lives with his wife Shelah, and they divide their time between Boston and Bergen, Norway. He runs small firm that offers professional copywriting and translation, as well as travel writing. These intriguing travel journalists unite and reveal the voices of women who traveled in Latin America during the 19th century.

Although men discovered the land, these women discovered the heart and soul of the new world and its indigenous peoples. These are important poems. Zen Questions and Answers from Korea. With Ian Haight, he is the co-translator of Borderland Roads: His poems speak softly and clearly, like hearing a temple bell that was struck a thousand years ago. Their bedrock is thusness, their images' beauty is pellucid and new, their view without limit.

The shelf of essential Zen poets for American readers grows larger with this immediately indispensable collection. How do Bengali women love in times of social transition and political upheaval? These poems look at how Bengali women tell their truths of the heart and mind through the prism of their struggles for equality, opportunity, and recognition in a changing society. The poems follow a subtle trajectory through the stages of love-First Love, Marriage, Separation, Aging and Death, and the ultimate Supreme, Universal Love of which romantic love is an imperfect reflection--not unlike the stages of life through the human psyche moves, from beginning to end and back to the starting anew of the cycle.

This collection includes work from a range of Bengali women poets, the eldest ones born in the women's quarters of purdah -observing, high-caste families in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Carolyne Wright spent four years on Indo-U. Subcommission and Fulbright Senior Research fellowships in Kolkata, India, and Dhaka, Bangladesh, collecting and translating the work of Bengali women poets and writers. Wright has also published eight books and chapbooks of poetry. And though they are they work of many different poets, there's a coherence about the volume as a whole that gives the poems exactly the right context in which to be read.

Whether yearning, flirtatious, angry, overtly sexual, bewildered, grieving, or joyful, they give full range of expression to the female experience of loving, both on a purely human physical and emotional level, as songs to a specific beloved, but also to the spirit's yearning for a higher power.

Wright and her co-translators have managed to capture the force of this traditional Bengali fusion of loves, a concept little known in the West, and made it seem both natural and inevitable. These are marvelous poems, various, surprising, and passionate. Majestic Nights will live on my beside table for the indefinite future. Bangla and translated by diverse hands in collaboration with Carolyne Wright, who represents the ideal intermediary, a poet in her own right in her mother tongue of English and one who has taken the time and effort to master Bengali.

These lyrics, identified as "love poems," span the full spectrum of that chameleon-like emotion. The female voices therein are assertive: The poems in Mars Poetica examine the conscious and unconscious ways we comprehend both the world around us and the one inside. For in this book, Cooper wanders and dreams whole continents, the pattern of a skirt, a song no longer playing, lost friends, former homes, spent years. What will we miss the most when we have left Earth? Everything Cooper gives us here and more. His poems are included in 25 anthologies of contemporary poetry, including Poetry: Their songs have been featured on six television shows.

He has given readings across the country, as well as in Europe. He is a former editor of Quarterly West , and the recipient of a fellowship from the Ucross Foundation. He lives in Boston and works as a freelance editor. They calm and refresh with their clarity and lucidity; their music soothes and enlivens; their intelligence and their sure craft sustain us and confirm our faith in art. They are a perfect antidote for the fevers of our historical moment. But nothing is hurried. Mikhail Fyodorovich Yeryomin was born in in the northern Caucasus but grew up in Leningrad, where he studied in the Philology Department of the Leningrad State University and graduated from the Herzen Institute.

The poet lives in St. Kates is a poet, literary translator and the president and co-director of Zephyr Press, a non-profit press that focuses on contemporary works in translation from Russia, Eastern Europe, and Asia. In these deft, astute English translations by J. Kates has translated Russian with devotion, with selfless attentiveness that is inspiring, that enchants. And, the fact that he has done this for many years with such humility and freshness of scope is humbling.

In the original Russian, Yeryomin, who was one of the first and very few poets in his generation to drop the rhyme, was able to find a new kind of music, that was multi-vocal, and surprising. Long neglected or scoffed at by poetry purists, the prose poem is now taking its rightful place as a distinct and accepted genre in American letters. An International Journal, did much to legitimatize this genre.

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This book, his second collection of prose poetry, is filled with the mystery, humor, and pathos that make this form so appealing and so accessible. Peter Johnson lives in Providence, Rhode Island, with his wife and son. He teaches at Providence College. Each of these poems is a world unto itself. His mediations on the timeless travails of men form an encyclopedic journey towards truth and an existence where the mysteries of the prose poem are the unreachable frontiers of the male soul.

Forty-year-old In-mo, a movie director who's been jobless for the past decade decides to move in with his widowed mother. His older brother, with five criminal convictions, has already moved back. Then younger sister Mi-yeon arrives with her bratty, rebellious fifteen-year-old daughter. Mom is delighted to have her entire dysfunctional family back again, but what ensues is both comic and frightening. Fast-paced and imaginative, it introduces English-speaking readers to a bright new voice in world literature. Kyoung-lee Park is a professional translator, in , she was awarded the grand prize in the 9th Korean Literature Translation Contest for New Translators.

She is currently studying towards a Ph. He has also published a fiction collection entitled 'Marisa, the Merry Maid'. At other times its is language Employing and many times parodying the structures of discourse by which we have communicated our sense of the world through the ages, Marcus re-examines the notions on which the human species has understood its place in the universe. In the process, he has created his own cosmology, a cosmology by turns humorous, satirical, poignant, and always compassionate in revealing our beliefs, foibles, hopes, and contradictory actions.

Morton Marcus is the author of seven books of poetry and one novel, The Brezhvev Memo. A film historian and critic as well as a poet, Marcus taught film and literature at Cabrillo College in Aptos, California, until his retirement. Santoka lived his life in the long zen hermit wandering poetic tradition of Japan that includes Basho, Ryokan and Saigyo. His zen practice was that of solitary walking and begging. The open road was to become both his home and monastery.

His haiku are admired both in Japan and around the world for their unadorned style. John Stevens is the author or translator of over twenty books on Buddhism, Zen, Aikido, and Asian culture. He has practiced and taught Aikido all over the world. His books include Lotus Moon: Poems of Rengetsu and Wild Ways: I felt I was re-encountering Cuba in the light of new imagining, freed of ideology and therefore resplendent and complete.

Necessities by Christopher Merrill. Christopher Merrill has published four collections of poetry, including Brilliant Water and Watch Fire , more than a dozen edited volumes and books of translations; and five works of nonfiction. His writings have been translated into twenty-five languages. He excels at everything — history, memoir, translation, poetry, and now Necessities. Sometimes they read like Jack London re-written by Rimbaud and Baudelaire working together.

A poetics perhaps deriving from post-war east European poetry is an important part of the mix, along with some habits of old-fashioned surrealism. The repeating motifs sometimes suggest a huge prose sestina. In one of the later poems we read: His range of sympathy, subject, and tone has always been prodigious. His grasp of form is sure and in service of clear attention. This collection shows a complex talent developing and extending its original high promise. Unsatisfied with work, with family, with friends, they lose themselves in diets, books, and blogs. Her work humorously but humanely depicts the loneliness and monotony found in many modern lives.

Notes from the Journey Westward is a book that interrogates the idea of America—especially our westering, both historical and contemporary, our rough, rocky journeys through the vast interiors of the continent and of our own hearts. In this wild, wide-open, god-forgotten country blind grandmothers take us by the hand, and lost fathers hide in every prairie shadow, and old devils hunch and watch from craggy peaks. We are orphaned here, all of us, and so must reckon with the very foundations of us, with the myths and stories that make and remake us as people and as a nation.

A hard world away. And nothing will do but that blue sky. Wilkins has a fine ear, but he uses it, rather than displays it. For all their toughness, these are wonderfully lyrical pieces. Vowels seem to bounce off one another like stones in a creek bed, but they are ordered, deliberate; subtle sound repetitions chime throughout, like bellwethers. Wilkins slips from chore boots to house slippers to dress shoes without effort. He has range and staying power. His poems, essays, and stories have appeared in the Georgia Review, the Southern Review, Harvard Review, Ecotone, the Sun, Orion, and Slate, among other magazines and literary journals.

He lives with his wife, son, and daughter in north Iowa, where he teaches writing at Waldorf College. You can find him online at http: Echoes of ancestral voices crisscross. Quiet intimate moments intersect with large socio-political issues. Spare poems, long poems, prose poems—I so admire the depth and breadth of work here, in how much Wilkins manages to pack in and carry along in our ever-onwarding little wagon. The edge of America has more than an ocean. It has dust-stunned men, hardscrabble women, and a patient devil, sharpening his teeth.

Notes from the Journey Westward offers an earnest glimpse into past and present landscapes that are real and imagined, mourned and celebrated and witnessed—for these, to borrow the words of Nazim Hikmet, are human landscapes. The unflinching poems in this collection are a delight. Nothing to Declare is a ground-breaking anthology of cross-genre work. What you will find here are linked prose poems, narrative sequences, lyrical essays, koans, fairy tales, and epistolary addresses.

These innovative and fearless narratives combine the art of the glimpse with the craft of the gaze. They are what Virginia Woolf would have called little miraculous illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark. Buy this book, savor it. I describe them as hypnotic, startling, and alive. The editors, in Nothing to Declare , have gathered an abundance of rich, fragmented, carefully crafted moments that carry import on their own, but woven together create a new kind of fervent energy. A heartfelt thanks to Mr. Marquart for envisioning and delivering Nothing to Declare.

His poems often have a remarkable stillness to them, giving the reader time to look around once inside their world, and really breathe the poems in. He has a way in finding beauty in struggle, and at the same time celebrating being in the moment, whether in trying to survive a northern winter, or coming to terms with our own mortality. My hair grows, my waist, my growl a truer lament. And he approaches it all with a sense of wonder, of delight. Peter has a way of placing us immediately in the moment, and then being perfectly willing to disorient us, to explode the familiar, to use the strangeness and odd juxtapositions within these poems to alter our sense of where we are.

Both is these poems, and in our lives. Peter Conners has offered a wonderful cycle and proof, for those of us who may need it, that prose poetry requires no more validation: I love his time travels, the vibrant layering of image and detail. Try taking walks as you are reading this book— the dazzle of landscapes, inner and outer, feel replenished and rich. This is language and vision I want to come home to again and again. In these new poems Peter Conners peels away the fragile membrane that separates imagination from reality, the suppositional from the actual.

Lyrical, intelligent and passionate, Conners writes with the suppleness and the grace of a dancer. By turns manic and contemplative, zany and wise, his rollicking poems have the power to simultaneously challenge, illuminate and praise the illusive character of the world. Not a fairy tale. It is not an escape from life or an alternative to reality. It is, alas, a map of the mind, of its winter landscapes, of the psyche of fatherhood, of marriage, and of the daily drudgery of life.

How odd that it is also comic, surprising, magical, even illuminating. I am both enchanted and baffled by this poet. What a completely unique voice, what a bold new collection. One Day, Then Another is dedicated to giving voice to the voiceless. His poetic task is to find a way to honor the weak and disenfranchised. He does not rush headlong to expose them, but takes small cautious steps through the cracks into the hidden world. Then, in full empathy, he becomes part of that world.

The Moonlit Earth

Cho Young-Shil is a retired English teacher, she now works as a poet for young adults and a translator. This is not the exotic island, this is not an island of rebels and caudillos. This is an island peopled with women who are trying to make it from day to day; but to do so successfully, now and then they must take a flight of fancy. The new-found freedom these women were given let then tackle issues affecting women that had long been ignored or considered taboo, including promiscuity, forced sex, homosexuality, and depression.

The stories are darin gand uncensored. Each of the contributors brings something different to the book, making this an impressively diverse collection. The issues discussed in these stories make this collection beneficial not only for those interested in Cuban history and literature, but for all readers. Merely to pronounce a word must be, in such a case, to see it and realize, half-unconsciously perhaps, its various parts.

Even if half-unconscious, the nuances of meaning conveyed by them must have hung about the spoken word and given it a distinct flavour which, without them, would be absent. Now what is a translator to do? Shall he render the word in the flat, dictionary sense, or shall he permit himself to add to it what it conveys to an educated Chinese?

Clearly neither the one nor the other in all cases; but one or the other, which the context must determine. In description, for instance, where it is evident that the Chinese poet used every means at his command to achieve a vivid representation, I believe the original poem is more nearly reproduced by availing one's self of a minimum of these "split-ups"; where, on the other hand, the original carefully confines itself to simple and direct expression, the word as it is, without overtones, must certainly be preferred.

If a translation of a poem is not poetry in the new tongue, the original has been shorn of its chief reason for being. Something is always lost in a translation, but that something had better be the trappings than the essence. I must, however, make it quite clear how seldom these "split-ups" occur in the principal parts of the book; in the " Written Pictures ," where the poems were not, most of them, classics, we felt justified in making a fuller use of these analytical suggestions; but I believe I am correct in saying that no translations from the Chinese that I have read are so near to the originals as these.

Bear in mind, then, that there are not, I suppose, more than a baker's dozen of these "split-ups" throughout the book, and the way they were managed can be seen by this literal translation of a line the " The Terraced Road of the Two-Edged Sword Mountains. Wind; and to speak. Can any one doubt that this was just the effect that the Chinese poet wished to achieve, and did achieve by means of the overtones given in his characters?

Another, simpler, example is in a case where the Chinese poet speaks of a rising sun. There are many characters which denote sunrise, and each has some shade of difference from every other. In one, the analysis is the sunrise light seen from a boat through mist; in another, it is the sun just above the horizon; still another is made up of a period of time and a mortar, meaning that it is dawn, when people begin to work.


Miss Lowell has told in the Preface the manner in which we worked. The papers sent to Miss Lowell were in exactly the form of the above, and with them I also sent a paraphrase, and notes such as those at the end of this book. Far from making the slightest attempt at literary form in these paraphrases, I deliberately made them as bald as possible, and strove to keep my personality from intruding between Miss Lowell and the Chinese poet with whose mood she must be in perfect sympathy.

Her remarkable gift for entering into the feeling of the poet she is translating was first shown in "Six French Poets," but there she approached her authors at first hand. It was my object to enable her to approach these Chinese authors as nearly at first hand as I could. That my method has been justified by the event, the book shows; not merely are these translations extraordinarily exact, they are poetry, and would be so though no Chinese poet had conceived them fourteen hundred years ago.

It is as if I had handed her the warp and the woof, the silver threads and the gold, and from these she has woven a brocade as nearly alike in pattern to that designed by the Chinese poet as the differences in the looms permit. I believe that this is the first time that English translations of Chinese poetry have been made by a student of Chinese and a poet working together. The second section of the book, " Written Pictures ," consists of illustrations, or half illustrations, of an art which the Chinese consider the most perfect medium in which a man can express himself.

A beautiful thought perpetuated in beautiful handwriting and hung upon the wall to suggest a mental picture — that is what it amounts to. In China, the arts of poetry and calligraphy are united in the ideographs which form the written language. There are several different styles in which these ideographs, or characters, may be written. The earliest are pictograms known as the "ancient pictorial script," they were superseded in the Eighth Century B.

Their place was taken by a type of character known as " li " or "official script," a simplified form of the "seal," and this, being an improvement upon all previous styles, soon became popular. The "model hand," the "running hand," and the famous "grass hand," so popular with poets and painters, are merely adaptations of the li ; all three of these, together with the li itself, are used in the composition of written pictures. A photograph of one of the originals will be found opposite the translation made from it on page The names which follow the poems are not those of the authors, but of the calligraphists.

In the case of two poems, the authors' names are also given. These written pictures had no titles, those given here were added simply for convenience; but the titles to the poems in the body of the book are those of the poets themselves, except in one or two instances where the Chinese title conveyed so little to an Occidental mind that its meaning had to be paraphrased.

The Notes at the end of the book are intended for the general reader. For which reason, I have purposely excluded the type of note which consists in cataloguing literary cross-allusions. To know that certain lines in a poem are quoted from some earlier author, is one of a class of facts which deeply interest scholars, but are of no importance whatever to the rest of the world.

A word as to the title of this book: Hsieh-T'ao made a paper of ten colours, which she dipped in a stream, and on it wrote her poems. Now, some years before, a woman had taken the stole of a Buddhist priest to this stream in order to wash it. No sooner had the stole touched the water than the stream became filled with flowers. In an old Chinese book, "The Treasury of Pleasant Records," it is told that, later in life, Hsieh T'ao gave up the "fir-flower tablets" and made paper of a smaller size. Presumably this fir-flower paper was the paper of ten colours.

I cannot close this Introduction without expressing my gratitude to my teacher, Mr. It is his unflagging interest and never-failing patience that have kept me spurred on to my task. Speaking no word of English, Mr. Nung must often have found my explanations of what would, and what would not, be comprehensible to Occidental readers very difficult to understand, and my only regret is that he cannot read the book now that it is done.

There are no flowers For the heart of the earth is yet too chilly. At dawn, there is the shock and shouting of battle, Following the drums and the loud metal gongs. At night, the soldiers sleep, clasping the pommels of their jade-ornamented saddles. They sleep lightly, With their two-edged swords girt below their loins, So that they may be able in an instant to rush upon the Barbarians 3 And destroy them.

Swift as the three dogs' wind! Whips stinging the clear air like the sharp calling of birds, They ride across the camel-back bridge Over the river Wei. They bend the bows, Curving them away from the moon which shines behind them Over their own country of Han. They fasten feathers on their arrows To destroy the immense arrogance of the foe. Now the regiments are divided And scattered like the five-pointed stars, Sea mist envelops the deserted camp, The task is accomplished, And the portrait of Ho P'iao Yao 4 Hangs magnificently in the Lin Pavilion.

When Autumn burns along the hills, The Barbarian hordes mount their horses And pour down from the North. Then, in the country of Han, The Heavenly soldiers arise 5 And depart from their homes. Then lie down and rest On the Dragon sand. The frontier moon casts the shadows of bows upon the ground, Swords brush the hoar-frost flowers of the Barbarians' country. The Jade Pass has not yet been forced, 7 Our soldiers hold it strongly. Therefore the young married women May cease their lamentations. The Heavenly soldiers are returning From the sterile plains of the North. Because the Barbarians desired their horses To drink of the streams of the South, Therefore were our spears held level to the charge In a hundred fights.

They seized the snow of the Inland Sea 8 And devoured it in their terrible hunger. They lay on the sand at the top of the Dragon Mound 9 And slept. Now indeed have they won the right To the soft, high bed of Peace. It is their just portion. H OW dim the battle-field, as yellow dusk! The fighting men are like a swarm of ants. The air is thick, the sun a red wheel.

Blood dyes the wild chrysanthemums purple. Vultures hold the flesh of men in their mouths, They are heavy with food — they cannot rise to fly. There were men yesterday on the city wall; There are ghosts to-day below the city wall. Colours of flags like a net of stars, Rolling of horse-carried drums — not yet is the killing ended. From the house of the Unworthy One — a husband, sons, All within earshot of the rolling horse-drums. The Shu Road is as perilous and difficult as the way to the Green Heavens.

Westward, over the Great White Mountain, was a bird-track By which one could cross to the peak of Omei. But the earth of the mountain fell and overwhelmed the Heroes so that they perished. Above, the soaring tips of the high mountains hold back the six dragons of the sun; 14 Below, in the ravines, the flowing waters break into whirlpools and swirl back against the current. Yellow geese flying toward the peaks cannot pass over them; The gibbons climb and climb, 15 despairingly pulling themselves up higher and higher, but even their endurance fails.

With nine turns to a hundred steps, it winds round the ledges of the mountain crests. Clutching at Orion, passing the Well Star, I look up and gasp. I sit long with my hand pressed to my heart and groan. I ask my Lord how long this Westward wandering will last, when we shall return. It is impossible to climb the terrible road along the edges of the precipices. Among the ancient trees, one sees only cruel, mournful, black birds.

Male birds, followed by females, fly to and fro through the woods. Sometimes one hears a nightingale in the melancholy moonlight of the lonely mountain. The ruddy faces of those who hear the story of it turn pale. There is not a cubit's space between the mountain tops and the sky. Dead and uprooted pine-trees hang over sheer cliffs. Flying waterfalls and rolling torrents outdo one another in clamour and confusion; They dash against the perpendicular walls, whirl round ten thousand rocks, and boom like thunder along the ravines.

How endless a road for man to undertake! How came he to attempt it! One man alone could hold it against a thousand and mow them down like grass. If the guardian of the Pass were doubtful whether those who came were enemies of his kinsmen, He could fall upon them as a ravening wolf. At dawn, one flees the fierce tigers; In the evening, one flees the long snakes Who sharpen their fangs and suck blood, Destroying men like hemp. Even though the delights of the Embroidered City are as reported, Nothing could equal the joy of going home at once.

I turn toward the West, and, gazing long, I sigh. T HE heavy clouds are broken and blowing, And once more I can see the wide common stretching beyond the four sides of the city. Half of the moon-toad is already up, 17 The glimmer of it is like smooth hoar-frost spreading over ten thousand li. The moon, rising, is a white eye to the hills; After it has risen, it is the bright heart of the sea. Because I love it — so — round as a fan, I hum songs until the dawn. T HE mist is thick. On the wide river, the water-plants float smoothly. No letters come; none go.

There is only the moon, shining through the clouds of a hard, jade-green sky. All day, going about my affairs, I suffer and grieve, and press the thought of you closely to my heart. My eyebrows are locked in sorrow, I cannot separate them. Nightly, nightly, I keep ready half the quilt, And wait for the return of that divine dream which is my Lord. The red candles in the silver candlesticks melt, and the wax runs from them, As the tears of your so Unworthy One escape and continue constantly to flow.

As I toss on my pillow, I hear the cold, nostalgic sound of the water-clock: I rise at dawn. In the Hall of Pictures They come and tell me that the snow-flowers are falling. The reed-blind is rolled high, and I gaze at the beautiful, glittering, primeval snow, Whitening the distance, confusing the stone steps and the courtyard.

The air is filled with its shining, it blows far out like the smoke of a furnace. The grass-blades are cold and white, like jade girdle pendants. Surely the Immortals in Heaven must be crazy with wine to cause such disorder, Seizing the white clouds, crumpling them up, destroying them. When they go out from the retired Women's Apartments, They often follow the Palace chairs. Their only sorrow, that the songs and wu dances are over, 25 Changed into the five-coloured clouds and flown away.

Seeing a man on the bank, they turn and row away singing. Laughing, they hide among the lotus-flowers, And, in a pretence of bashfulness, will not come out. Many of the young girls of Wu are white, dazzlingly white. They like to amuse themselves by floating in little boats on the water.

Peeping out of the corners of their eyes, they spurn the Springtime heart. Gathering flowers, they ridicule the passer-by. Wiped, rubbed, splendid as the Winter moon; Its light and brilliance, how clear and round! The rose-red face is older than it was yesterday, The hair is whiter than it was last year. The white-lead powder is neglected, It is useless to look into the mirror. I am utterly miserable. When my Lord went away, he gave me this precious mirror coiled with dragons That I might gaze at my golden-threaded dress of silken gauze.

Again and again I take my red sleeve and polish the bright moon, Because I love to see its splendour lighting up everything. In its centre is my reflection, and the golden magpie which does not fly away. I know the day he left; I do not know the year when he will return.

The cruel wind blows — truly the heart of the Unworthy One is cut to pieces. My tears, like white jade chop-sticks, fall in a single piece 29 before the water-chestnut mirror. T HE many-coloured clouds make me think of her upper garments, of her lower garments; Flowers make me think of her face. The Spring wind brushes the blossoms against the balustrade, In the heavy dew they are bright and tinted diversely.

If it were not on the Heaped Jade Mountain that I saw her, I must have met her at the Green Jasper Terrace, or encountered her by accident in the moon. A branch of opulent, beautiful flowers, sweet-scented under frozen dew. No love-night like that on the Sorceress Mountain for these; their bowels ache in vain. Pray may I ask who, in the Palace of Han, is her equal?

Even the "Flying Swallow" is to be pitied, since she must rely upon ever new adornments. The renowned flower, and she of a loveliness to overthrow Kingdoms — both give happiness. The Spring wind alone can understand and explain the boundless jealousy of the flower, Leaning over the railing of the balcony at the North side of the aloe-wood pavilion. Bed-curtains of open-work silk — embroidered quilt — I sleep with the Spring wind. The setting moon drops level to the balcony, it spies upon me. The candle is burnt out. A blown flower drifts in through the inner door — it mocks at the empty bed.

The all Unworthy One attends beside The Dragon-embroidered robes. I ponder his regard, not mine the love 31 Enjoyed by those within the Purple Palace. And yet I have attained to brightening The bed of yellow gold. If floods should come, I also would not leave. My inconsiderable body knows the honour Of serving Sun and Moon. I beg my Lord to pluck The trifling mustard plant and melon-flower And not reject them for their hidden roots.

T HE wind blows. The inn is filled with the scent of willow-flowers. In the wine-shops of Wu, women are pressing the wine. The young men and boys of Nanking have gathered to see me off; I wish to start, but I do not, and we drink many, many horn cups to the bottom. I beg them to look at the water flowing toward the East, And when we separate to let their thoughts follow its example and run constantly in my direction. T HE silver-crested love-pheasants strutted upon the Pheasant Terrace. Gone are the blossoms of the Palace of Wu and overgrown the road to it.

Passed the generations of the Chin, with their robes and head-dresses; they lie beneath the ancient mounds. The three hills are half fallen down from Green Heaven. The White Heron Island cuts the river in two. Therefore I am sorrowful. W HAT hardships are encountered in a Northern flight!

The mountain road winds round a cliff, and it is very steep and dangerous; The precipice, sheer as though cut with a knife, rises to the great, wide blue of the sky. The horses' feet slip on the slanting ledges; The carriage-wheels are broken on the high ridges; The sand, scuffed into dust, floats in a continuous line to Yo Chou. The smoke of beacon fires connects us with the Country of the North. The spirit of killing is in the spears, in the cruel two-edged swords.

The savage wind rips open the upper garments, the lower garments. The rushing whale squeezes the Yellow River; 38 The man-eating beasts with long tusks assemble at Lo Yang. A foot of cloth does not cover the body, Our skins are cracked as the bark of a dead mulberry. The deep gullies prevent us from getting water from the mountain streams, Far away are the slopes where we might gather grass and twigs for our fires, Then, too, the terrible tiger lashes his tail, And his polished teeth glitter like Autumn frosts.

Grass and trees cannot be eaten. We famish; we drink the drops of freezing dew. So we suffer, travelling Northward. I stop my four-horse carriage, overcome by misery. When will our Emperor find a peaceful road? When, before our glad faces, shall we see the Glory of Heaven? The soldiers were drenched by the waters of the Aral Sea, The horses were turned loose to find grass in the midst of the snows of the Heaven High Hills.

Over ten thousand li , they attacked and fought, The three divisions are crumbled, decayed, utterly worn and old. The Hsiung Nu use killing and slaughter in the place of the business of plowing. From ancient times, only dry, white bones are seen on the yellow sand-fields. The House of Ch'in erected and pounded firm the wall to make a barrier before the dwelling-place of the Barbarians, The House of Han still preserved the beacon-stands where fires are lighted.

The lighting of beacon fires on the stands never ceases, The fighting and attacking are without a time of ending. In savage attack they die — fighting without arms. The riderless horses scream with terror, throwing their heads up to the sky.

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Officers and soldiers lying in mud, in grass, in undergrowth. Helpless, the General — Yes, incapable before this! We have learnt that soldiers are evil tools, But wise men have not accomplished the ending of war, and still we employ them. The white waves are as high as the high rooms in the Temple of Wa Kuan. The misery of that one stretch of water draws out its length to ten thousand li. When the Sea Demon passes by, a vicious wind curves back. The waves beat open the rock wall of the Gate of Heaven.

He moves his hands for me, striking the lute.

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It is like listening to the waters in ten thousand ravines, and the wind in ten thousand pine-trees. The traveller's heart is washed clean as in flowing water. The echoes of the overtones join with the evening bell. I am not conscious of the sunset behind the jade-grey hill, Nor how many and dark are the Autumn clouds.

W HEN the hair of your Unworthy One first began to cover her forehead, She picked flowers and played in front of the door. Then you, my Lover, came riding a bamboo horse. We ran round and round the bed, and tossed about the sweetmeats of green plums. We both lived in the village of Ch'ang Kan. We were both very young, and knew neither jealousy nor suspicion. At fourteen, I became the wife of my Lord. I could not yet lay aside my face of shame; 43 I hung my head, facing the dark wall; You might call me a thousand times, not once would I turn round.

At fifteen, I stopped frowning. I wanted to be with you, as dust with its ashes. I often thought that you were the faithful man who clung to the bridge-post, 44 That I should never be obliged to ascend to the Looking-for-Husband Ledge. Your departing footprints are still before the door where I bade you good-bye, In each has sprung up green moss. The moss is thick, it cannot be swept away. The leaves are falling, it is early for the Autumn wind to blow. It is the Eighth Month, the butterflies are yellow, Two are flying among the plants in the West garden; Seeing them, my heart is bitter with grief, they wound the heart of the Unworthy One.

The bloom of my face has faded, sitting with my sorrow. From early morning until late in the evening, you descend the Three Serpent River. Prepare me first with a letter, bringing me the news of when you will reach home. I look at the clear streams a long way off. I see distinctly the three branches of the Hsiang River, I hear the sound of its swift current.

The water flows coldly; it is on its way to the lake. The horizontal Autumn clouds hide the sky.

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I go by the "Bird's Path. I do not know how many thousand li it is from Ching to Wu. It is the hour of the Western brightness, of the half-round sun. The dazzle on the island is about to disappear; The smooth lake is brilliantly white — from the moon? Over the lake, the moon is rising. I think of the moment of meeting — the long stretch of time before it. The lotus-flowers have fallen — Oh-h-h-h-h! The river is the colour of Autumn.

The wind passes — passes. The night is endless — endless. I would go to the end of the Dark Sea. How eagerly I desire this! I yield to the great waves, and my sorrow is increased. I will go home. Even for a little time, one cannot rely upon the World. T HE East wind has come again. I see the jade-green grass and realize that it is Spring.

Everywhere there is an immense confusion of ripples and agitations. Why does the waving and fluttering of the weeping-willow make me sad? The sky is so bright it shines; everything is lovely and at peace. The breath of the sea is green, fresh, sweet-smelling; The heaths are vari-coloured, blue — green — as a kingfisher feather. Oh-h-h-h-h — How far one can see! Clouds whirl, fly, float, and cluster together, each one sharply defined; Waves are smoothed into a wide, continuous flowing. I examine the young moss in the well, how it starts into life.

I see something dim — Oh-h-h-h-h — waving up and down like floss silk. I see it floating — it is a cobweb, coiling like smoke. Before all these things — Oh-h-h-h-h — my soul is severed from my body. Confronted with the wind, the brilliance, I suffer. I will try to climb a high hill and look far away into the distance.

Pain cuts me to the bone and wounds my heart. My Spring heart is agitated as the surface of the sea, My Spring grief is bewildered like a flurry of snow. Ten thousand emotions are mingled — their sorrow and their joy. Yet I know only that my heart is torn in this Spring season. She of whom I am thinking — Oh-h-h-h-h — is at the shore of the Hsiang River, Separated by the clouds and the rainbow — without these mists I could surely see.

I scatter my tears a foot's length upon the water's surface. I entrust the Easterly flowing water with my passion for the Cherished One. If I could command the shining of the Spring, could grasp it without putting it out — Oh-h-h-h-h — I should wish to send it as a gift to that beautiful person at the border of Heaven. He follows the ways of the Official T'ao. At his gate, he has planted five willow-trees, 54 And on either side of the well, crowding it between them, stand two wu-t'ung trees. Mountain birds fly down and listen while he transacts business; From the eaves of his house, flowers drop into the midst of his wine.

Thinking of my Lord, I cannot bear to depart. My thoughts are melancholy and endless. Often, during the day, he sleeps at the North window. Again, in the moonlight, he bends over his table-lute and plays, His hands follow his thoughts, for there are no strings.

He is the best of officials, since he does not care for gold. He has planted many grains on the Eastern heights, And he admonishes all the people to plow their fields early. Because you, my Lord, have planted peach-trees and plum-trees, This place has suddenly become exuberantly fragrant. As your writing-brush moves, making the characters so full of life, you gaze at the white clouds; And, when the reed-blinds are rolled up, at the kingfisher-green of the fading hills; And, when the time comes, for long at the mountain moon; Still again, when you are exhilarated with wine, at the shadow of the moon in the wine-cup.

Great man and teacher, I love you. I cannot bear to leave. White clouds follow my Lord always, From place to place. Clouds also follow my Lord when he floats In a boat on the river Hsiang, With the wild wistaria hanging above The waters of the river Hsiang. My Lord will go back To where he can sleep Among the white clouds, When the sun is as high As the head of a helmeted man.

T IDAL water is a determined thing, it can be depended on; But it is impossible to make an appointment with the wind of Heaven. In the clear dawn, it veers Northwest; At the last moment of sunset, it blows Southeast. And he encounters an old friend, an eccentric academic, who puts an intellectual gloss of Mihaly's strange nostalgia for his adolescent friends. Part four shows these newlyweds in surprising moments of truth, with Mihaly becoming even funnier. This is a major work of fiction in which Szerb manages to address such subjects as rebellion, the pursuit of personal truth, and some very weird thoughts about the propinquity of eroticism and death in a highly original and often hilarious tale.

I'm out of my depth here: But is this Woody Allen meets Thomas Mann? This story, of two Hungarians who have run off with each other and are now on their honeymoon in fascist Italy, could be read as a bourgeois cautionary tale. I myself quite liked Erzsi, who is undergoing her own erotic awakening throughout the book. The minor characters are also excellent. I adored both the English doctor and Millicent, the innocent American art student.

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Janos, the Hungarian con artist, is also an impressively vital character. Definitely recommended for those interested in European literature and in compelling, twisty plots. See all 39 reviews. Most recent customer reviews. Published 6 months ago. Published 1 year ago. Published on September 3, Published on August 25, Published on April 27, Published on November 23, Published on September 20, Published on August 5, Published on March 31, Published on March 16, Amazon Giveaway allows you to run promotional giveaways in order to create buzz, reward your audience, and attract new followers and customers.

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