Cat’s Cradle
Ambassador Minton went to the seaward parapet with his memorial wreath still in its case. And he delivered an amazing speech in honor of the Hundred Martyrs to Democracy. He dignified the dead, their country, and the life that was over for them by saying the “Hundred Martyrs to Democracy” in island dialect. That fragment of dialect was graceful and easy on his lips.
The rest of his speech was in American English. He had a written speech with him—fustian and bombast, I imagine. But, when he found he was going to speak to so few, and to fellow Americans for the most part, he put the formal speech away.
A light sea wind ruffled his thinning hair. “I am about to do a very un-ambassadorial thing,” he declared. “I am about to tell you what I really feel.”
From the archives
·
1954
The Sound of the Mountain
Though august had only begun, autumn insects were already singing.
He thought he could detect a dripping of dew from leaf to leaf.
Then he heard the sound of the mountain.
It was a windless night. the moon was near full, but in the moist, sultry air the fringe of trees that outlined the mountain was blurred . They were motionless, however.
Not a leaf on the fern by the veranda was stirring.
Read more of this excerpt...
The Sound of the Mountain
Though august had only begun, autumn insects were already singing.
He thought he could detect a dripping of dew from leaf to leaf.
Then he heard the sound of the mountain.
It was a windless night. the moon was near full, but in the moist, sultry air the fringe of trees that outlined the mountain was blurred . They were motionless, however.
Not a leaf on the fern by the veranda was stirring.
Read more of this excerpt...
WORDS TO LIVE BY
1957 ·
NON-FICTION
NEW MUSIC