happy new year, you’re my only vice
These sudden ends of time must give us pause. We fray into the future, rarely wrought Save in the tapestries of afterthought. More time, more time. Barrages of applause Come muffled from a buried radio. The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow. RICHARD WILBUR
Once, a duck she was cooking caught fire, and she threw it in the pool.– Michael Stipe on Gwenyth Paltrow, from The New Yorker’s Best of the Talk of the Town 2011. (via onemoresalutetovanity)
I used to love the run-up to a storm, watching from the porch as the grown-ups hurried to bring things in, my mother rummaging through drawers for a flashlight, cursing: nothing was where it was supposed to be in our house. It can’t be so, but the only people I ever remember huddled in the basement were my mother and me, suspended in that eerie half-light like bats. We’ve just spent a week...