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The authentic! Shadows of it sweep past in dreams, one could say imprecisely, evoking the almost-silent ripping apart of giant sheets of cellophane. No. It thrusts up close. Exactly in dreams it has you off-guard, you recognize it before you have time. For a second before waking the alarm bell is a red conical hat, it takes form. ii The authentic! I said rising from the toilet seat. The radiator in rhythmic knockings spoke of the rising steam. The authentic, I said breaking the handle of my hairbrush as I brushed my hair in rhythmic strokes: That’s it, that’s joy, it’s always a recognition, the known appearing fully itself, and more itself than one knew. iii The new day rises as heat rises, knocking in the pipes with rhythms it seizes for its own to speak of its invention— the real, the new-laid egg whose speckled shell the poet fondles and must break if he will be nourished. iv A shadow painted where yes, a shadow must fall. The cow’s breath not forgotten in the mist, in the words. Yes, verisimilitude draws up heat in us, zest to follow through, follow through, follow transformations of day in its turning, in its becoming. v Stir the holy grains, set the bowls on the table and call the child to eat. While we eat we think, as we think an undercurrent of dream runs through us faster than thought towards recognition. Call the child to eat, send him off, his mouth tasting of toothpaste, to go down into the ground, into a roaring train and to school. His cheeks are pink his black eyes hold his dreams, he has left forgetting his glasses. Follow down the stairs at a clatter to give them to him and save his clear sight. Cold air comes in at the street door. vi The authentic! It rolls just out of reach, beyond running feet and stretching fingers, down the green slope and into the black waves of the sea. Speak to me, little horse, beloved, tell me how to follow the iron ball, how to follow through to the country beneath the waves to the place where I must kill you and you step out of your bones and flystrewn meat tall, smiling, renewed, formed in your own likeness. vii Marvelous Truth, confront us at every turn, in every guise, iron ball, egg, dark horse, shadow, cloud of breath on the air, dwell in our crowded hearts our steaming bathrooms, kitchens full of things to be done, the ordinary streets. Thrust close your smile that we know you, terrible joy.
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November 14. P. M. to Anursnack. From this hill I am struck with the smoothness and washed appearance of all the landscape. All these russet fields and swells look as if the withered grass had been combed by the flowing water; not merely the sandy roads but the fields are swept. All waters-the rivers and ponds and swollen brooks—and many new ones are now seen through the leafless trees-are blue as indigo, reservoirs of dark indigo amid the general russet and reddish-brown and gray. October answers to that period in the life of man when he is no longer dependent on his transient moods, when all his experience ripens into wisdom; but every root, branch, and leaf of him glows with maturity. What he has been and done in his spring and summer appears. He bears his fruit.
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A cool and even piercing wind blows to-day, making all shrubs to bow and trees to wave; such as we could not have had in July. I speak not of its coolness, but its strength and steadiness. The wind and the coldness increased as the day ad-vanced, and finally the wind went down with the sun. I was compelled to put on an extra coat for my walk. The ground is strewn with windfalls, and much fruit will consequently be lost. The wind roars amid the pines like the surf. You can hardly hear the crickets for the din, or the cars; I think the last must be considerably delayed when their course is against it. Indeed it is difficult to enjoy a quiet Thought. You sympathize too much with the commotion and restlessness of the elements. Such a blowing, stirring, bustling day, — what does it mean? All light things decamp; straws and loose leaves change their places. Such a blowing day is no doubt indispensable in the economy of nature. The whole country is a seashore, and the wind is the surf that breaks on it. It shows the white and silvery under sides of the leaves. Do plants and trees need to be thus tried and twisted? Is it a first intimation to the sap to cease to ascend, to thicken their stems?
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