Journey To The End Of The Night

Journey To The End Of The Night

The sky in Rancy is the same as in Detroit, a smoky soup that bathes the plain all the way to Levallois. Cast-off buildings bogged down in black muck. From a distance the chimneys, big ones and little ones, look like the fat stakes that rise out of the muck by the...
The Machine Stops

The Machine Stops

“And even the lecturers acquiesced when they found that a lecture on the sea was none the less stimulating when compiled out of other lectures that had already been delivered on the same subject. “Beware of first-hand ideas!” exclaimed one of the most advanced of...
Our Strangers

Our Strangers

On Sufferance The cat says, “I’m only here on sufferance.” The dog doesn’t understand, so the cat defines the word sufferance. It has to do with a kind of tolerance. It has to do with permission that is only indirect, permission through failure...
To Those Who Follow in Our Wake

To Those Who Follow in Our Wake

I. Truly, I live in dark times! An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead Points to insensitivity. He who laughs Has not yet received The terrible news. What times are these, in which A conversation about trees is almost a crime For in doing so we maintain our...
What Kind of Times Are These?

What Kind of Times Are These?

There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted who disappeared into those shadows. I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the...
The Machine Stops

The Machine Stops

For a moment Vashti felt lonely. Then she generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric buttons, revived her. There were buttons and switches everywhere—buttons to call for food, for music, for clothing. There was the...