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"His antlers were like barren boughs." —Punch (issue uncertain)
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The door of Quincy’s office was orange and his sofa was dark gray. Some of us in Weede’s group had doors of the same color but sofas of a different color. Some had identical sofas but different doors. Weede himself was the only one who had a red sofa. Weede and Ted Warburton were the only ones with black doors. But Mars Tyler’s sofa was ecru, a shade lighter than Grove Palmer’s door. I had all this down on paper. On slow afternoons I used to study it, trying to find a pattern. I thought there might be a subtle color scheme designed by management and based on a man’s salary, ability, and prospects for advancement or decline. Why did no two people have identical sofas and doors? Why was Ted Warburton allowed to have a black door when the only other black door belonged to Weede Denney? Why was Reeves Chubb the only one with a primrose sofa? Why was Paul Joyner’s perfectly good maroon sofa replaced by a royal blue one? Why was my sofa the same color as Weede’s door? There were others who felt as I did.
—Don DeLillo, Americana, 1971.
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From our outpost at Blogspot: [Is poetry holographic? Like a hologram, can a surviving fragment of
an ancient poem unfold the original meaning in its entirety? We like
to think so.]
Here's Sappho's take on magic words:
Although they are
Only breath, words
which I command
are immortal
(translated by Mary Barnard) |
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From Prof. Oddfellow's sketchbook:
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The sun had gone, the western ranges faded in chill purple mist, but the western sky still burned with ragged bands of orange. It was October.
—Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward, Angel, 1929.
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Illustration from Manners, Custom and Dress During the Middle Ages and During the Renaissance Period, by Paul Lacroix.
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Saint Higgledy-Piggledy
Patron of Randomness.
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The man wore a purple suit, a Panama hat over his shiny, slicked- down hair. He walked splay- footed, soundlessly.
The girl wore a green hat and a short skirt and sheer stockings, four- and- a- half inch French heels. She smelled of Midnight Narcissus.
—Raymond Chandler, "Pickup on Noon Street," from The Simple Art of Murder, 1950.
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A collaged story we assembled for a singular June and henceforth dedicate to all the Junes of the world. Click on the thumbnails below to view an enlarged version in a new window. |
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Original Content Copyright © 2026 by Craig Conley. All rights reserved.
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