The classics can console. But not enough.
Time is the metre, memory the only plot.
Americans are not brought up with meter. They're not brought up with poetry. If you try to get them to recite, they're too embarrassed.
We read, we travel, we become.
Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.