My girlfriend Hiroko’s grandmother was the first mochi death of the new millennium, and I knew that this was bad news. Spirits freed from their earthly bodies on New Year’s Day are immensely powerful—it’s winning the spirit lottery—and all debts must be reckoned immediately.
The poet is that kid who, standing in the corner with his back turned to his schoolmates, thinks he is in paradise.
He sank down and back then, buttoning a shirt he had thrust on, arranging objects from his pockets on the windowsill beside him, and began to eat a roll, after offering me one. Later when he went away to get some British illustrated papers about the removal of Yeats’s body to Ireland to show me, he brought back bananas, was very surprised when I didn’t want one, and rapidly ate both.
When a man like Silvestre Revueltas goes back into the ground at last, there is a rumor, a wave’s voice and a cry that makes ready and makes known his departure.
I am going to write in praise of the small. Not the miniature, which is an inverse of the monumental and thus, in its own way, monumental.