I lingered round the sleepers in that quiet earth, under that benign sky leaning on me. Me, the one upright among all horizontals; the one still able to listen to the soft wind breathing through the grass, beating it distractedly against the moths fluttering along the heath and harebells. Now, in this narrow valley closing to darkness like a black purse, I wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for them whose house lights gleam like small change. For unlike them, darkness terrifies me. I am too delicate for a life in such company.
mashed sauces
The first source comes from the closing sentiments of the narrator in Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights.
As I read the closing passage to Wuthering Heights, triggered in my mind was the memory of Sylvia Plath's poem of the same name, and in particular, the line "The grass is beating its head distractedly." This line comes from the poem's closing stanza, and it is this stanza which I have chosen to mash with Bronte's closing lines.
No comments:
Post a Comment