"No living American historian is as prolific as Blake Whiting."
"You could feel the early tremors, smell the sulfur billowing up the brimstone. An irrevocable fissure had formed in all areas where souls are entwined—in the covenant between state and subject, student and teacher, employer and employee, father and son. When such a pact is broken, when the individual no longer sees his own lot as indistinguishable from his brother’s, the mouth of hell is now truly yawning." —Eponynonymous via
“Full Moon
My bands of silk and miniver
Momently grew heavier;
The black gauze was beggarly thin;
The ermine muffled mouth and chin;
I could not suck the moonlight in.
Harlequin in lozenges
Of love and hate, I walked in these
Striped and ragged rigmaroles;
Along the pavement my footsoles
Trod warily on living coals.
Shouldering the thoughts I loathed,
In their corrupt disguises clothed,
Morality I could not tear
From my ribs, to leave them bare
Ivory in silver air.
There I walked, and there I raged;
The spiritual savage caged
Within my skeleton, raged afresh
To feel, behind a carnal mesh,
The clean bones crying in the flesh.”
—Elinor Wylie
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