Books
fromThe New Yorker
11 hours ago"Library of Congress"
A vast library's books and scripts summon sensory journeys across languages, cultures, and eras, offering endless discovery and imaginative travel.
Forget about apples and oranges nothing rhymes with orange anyway. Never mind those plums that William Carlos Williams sneaked from the icebox. The most poetic fruit of all is the blackberry. Not the mushy sugar bombs packed into plastic clamshells at the supermarket. Those are insipid, bland, prosaic. I mean the ragged, spicy volunteers that grow untended at the edge of a meadow or the side of a road. The kind you go out and pick in late summer or early fall. You'd be amazed at how many of those end up in poems.