"there is a patience of the wild -dogged, tireless, persistent as life itself- that holds motionless for endless hours the spider in its web, the snake in its coils, the panther in its ambuscade. this patience belongs peculiarly to life when it hunts its living food; and it belonged to buck as he clung to the flank of the herd, retarding its march, irritating the young bulls, worrying the cows with their half-grown calves, and driving the wounded bull mad with helpless rage.
for half a day this continued. buck multiplied himself, attacking from all sides, enveloping the herd in a whirlwind of menace, cutting out his victim as fast as it could rejoin its mates, wearing out the patience of creatures preyed upon, which is a lesser patience than that of creatures preying. as the day wore along and the sun dropped to its bed in the northwest (the darkness had come back and the fall nights were six hours long), the young bulls retraced their steps more and more reluctantly to the aid of their beset leader. the down-coming winter was harrying them on to the lower levels, and it seemed they could never shake off this tireless creature that held them back. besides, it was not the life of the herd, or of the young bulls, that was threatened. the life of only one member was demanded, which was a remoter interest than their lives, and in the end they were content to pay the toll.
as twilight fell the old bull stood with lowered head, watching his mates -the cows he had known, the calves he had fathered, the bulls he had mastered- as they shambled on at a rapid pace through the fading light. he could not follow, for before his nose leaped the merciless fanged terror that would not let him go. three hundredweight more than half a ton he weighed; he had lived a long, strong life,
Son: Thornton'ın ölür, Buck için yeni hayat başlarAlıntı
“Gece çöktü ve dolunay ağaçların üzerinden göğe yükseldi, toprağı aydınlatarak hayalet gibi bir günle kapladı. Gecenin gelişiyle, göletin başında düşünceli ve yaslı Buck, Yee şapkalıların yarattığından farklı olarak ormandaki yeni hayatın kıpırtısına kapıldı.“
“Night came on, and a full moon rose high over the trees into the sky, lighting the land till it lay bathed in ghostly day. And with the coming of the night, brooding and mourning by the pool, Buck became alive to a stirring of the new life in the forest.”
Her çiçeğin bir mevsimi, her kitabın bir zamanı vardır. Haziranın tadını yeni hikâyelerle çıkarın.
Howl: I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
“Her life was no more than a ghostly pageant of exhausted endurance.”
(Hayatı, yorgun bir dayanıklılığın hayaletimsi bir geçit töreninden ibaretti.)
The Spectre of Tappington by Richard Harris BarhamEdebiyat
Tappington'ın Hortlağı, kasvetli ve boylu poslu,
Dehşet verici bir sırıtış ve bir gülüşle bedensiz,
Dolaşırdı gece boyunca eski salonda,
Sesiyle ruhani bir kemanın.
The Spectre of Tappington, grim and tall,
With a ghastly leer and a fleshless grin,
Wandered by night through the ancient hall,
To the sound of a ghostly violin.
