blancwene: (Default)
I hated that winter. Hunger
held my stomach in a heavy-handed grip,
twisting at the sight of familiar
delicacies – ham, biscuits, bacon –
on advertisements flaking off the
backs of plywood stores. I tried
to trick myself, reading Pickwick Papers
and pouring over the lavish
descriptions of apple pie and plum pudding –
no use. The threat of starvation loomed
over my head at every breakfast,
every sunset, every noonday feast.
We were skeletons, grey tight skin
hiding fragile bones – shells that barely
held our hopes, obsessive, fixated
on dinner, on supper, on meals,
on food.
blancwene: (Keep a little romance - AoGG)
I wanted to see snow—
soft white icing spread
smoothly over a flat
surface. A wintry confection,
different from glaring concrete
or vibrant wisps of
winter rye.

Instead, I found flecks
of ice, random patches
dotting fields, like dandruff
shaken from the head of
the north wind. And
the trees? Just spindly
arms reaching towards a
depressive, dirty sky.

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It is always remarkable when someone sees your soul to a better degree than you see it yourself. You could count the people who see your soul on one hand. Others might know you but they would forget; their knowledge of you was like a weak and undisciplined thing. But that wasn’t so with him. He didn’t forget. It stuck in his mind. He had seen a kindred soul. He had seen it long ago. She only saw it now. But she was stricken with it. Suddenly she had identified him. There was the man she loved. As a result, she proceeded dementedly to behave as if the opposite were true.

–Nancy Lemann, The Fiery Pantheon

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