By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept

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brigid brophy's introduction is excellent. i read it last, of course, and it made me appreciate the book so much more in retrospect, and it also reminded me of the several parts i did enjoy. but i have to give it two stars, because i really didn't enjoy reading it. there were moments of great beauty, but too many parts where i was just gagging on her prose. i am all for pain and howling emotions,but isn't it the responsibility of the writer to marry the vulnerable raw nerves with craft?? it is true there were many moments where i was totally on-board with her writing, but when it was bad, it was very very bad.

You don't take much interest in politics, do you? You never read the newspapers? I drank my coffee, but I had a slight feeling of nausea. It's to be expected, I don't mind it at all, it's nothing. After a while I got out into the open air, and his face was the moon hanging in the snowy branches.” The title, as a foretaste of Smart's poetic techniques, uses metre (it is largely anapaestic), contains words denoting exalted or intensified states (grandeur, centrality, weeping), and alludes to Psalm 137 ("By the waters of Babylon we lay down and wept ...") which indicates metaphorical significance for the novel's subject matter. when i was fifteen, i had a journal. and i would smoke a joint and lie on my tummy and record my huge earthshattering thoughts.But with or without us, the Day itself must return, we insist, when the Joke at least sits basking in the sun, decorating her idle body with nameless red, once blood.

It stalled in the traffic and broke down outside her window. She was writing a letter: I love you very much: Careful Now in capitals. Under the redwood tree my grave was laid, and I beguiled my true love to lie down. The stream of our kiss put a waterway around the world, where love like a refugee sailed in the last ship. My hair made a shroud, and kept the coyotes at bay while we wrote our cyphers with anatomy. The winds boomed triumph, our spines seemed overburdened, and our bones groaned like old trees, but a smile like a cobweb was fastened across the mouth of the cave of fate.Injure me, betray me, but only make me sure of the love, for all day and night, away from him and with him, everywhere and always, that is my gravity, and the apples (which ben ripe in my gardayne) fall only towards that.

a b Norton, Ingrid (October 1, 2010). "A Year with Short Novels: Elizabeth Smart, Queen of Sheba". Open Letters Monthly.ugh. i can feel raymond carver hurling an empty bottle of booze at this sentence in disgust, and for once, i am with him. I am shot with wounds which have eyes that see a world of sorrow, always to be, panoramic and unhealable, and mouths that hang unspeakable in the sky of blood.See a woman who is part of an unending love triangle, feel the music of her "love language" through this prose poem, follow the staccato of her thoughts, know that this is about love and its melancholy. Unrequited love? No. Unappreciated love, I would say. Love that is not true. But who I am to judge the confounding love the author shares with her married, unavailable, and narcissistic lover?