Category: Yo Ivanhoe

Burch woke up one morning in a ditch in some low-lying country. He had no idea where he was and no recollection of how he might have arrived there. Whatever possessions he might once have owned –and he had a vague recollection of a backpack full of belongings– were nowhere to be seen. He was…

Waking, by reason of their continual cares, fears, sorrows, and dry brains, is a symptom that much crucifies melancholy men. —Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy All he could do was transcribe the interminable babbling voice of the night, the insinuating perverse voice of the demons. —Pietro Citati, Kafka What if an individual is perceiving…

He knew how to make the heart sing and yodel and howl with joy, could coax from it creaks and croaks and murmurs. He seemed to be able to make it confess its secrets, its hopes and desires, fears and needs. His performances were uncanny, the stuff of growing legend, and would leave audiences spellbound.…

The little house with its peeling paint and mossy shingles was set well back from the street and appeared to be floating in a sea of saffron grass bleached by the sun and burnished by the fleeting sweep of twilight. It was hot. There wasn’t a shadow left in which to take refuge, and there…

Am I too old to see the fairies dance? I cannot find them anymore. –Langston Hughes, from “After Many Springs” That the light would last forever. That a silent abracadabra was the appropriate blessing to be conferred on even the grayest new morning. That a dog was both a lantern and a life preserver. That…

The King deputized for the Queen at many sacred functions, dressed in her robes, wore false breasts, borrowed her lunar axe as a symbol of power, and even took over from her the magical act of rain-making. His ritual death varied greatly in circumstance; he might be torn in pieces by wild women, transfixed with…