From Prose

More Diary Salvage

‘You are not like other Russians.’ He considers her across the table. ‘Something’s lacking. Ah! I know. It’s The Big Brother.’ *** Vardan’s conversation always seemed to me superb. I think it was because of his way of holding a pause, without the faintest unease or rushing to say something. He liked playing with his…

Musicology, Injected with Animus

Salvaged notes on Joel Sheveloff’s lecture. Joel Sheveloff died last November. ‘His “calembours” have become as celebrated as his duels, and his eloquence was natural and pleasing.’ A lackluster tribute may be found on the BU web pages: ‘The SFA mourns…’ These are my notes on one of his Bach lectures. ‘Musicology today is young…

The Chestnut and the Linden

Once there was a chestnut tree that stood at the edge of a leafy grove. In the spring, its splendid crown cast a broad shade about its roots, and violets would show their sweet faces here and there, and smiled at the tree. Upright clusters of fragrant flowers would cover the tree as spring turned…

The Owl Mother

Once there was a mother who loved her little boy. They lived in an old wooden house surrounded by a garden, and where the garden ended, a deep forest began. Every day, the boy and his mother were together, playing with toys, reading books, and taking care of the house and garden. When night-time came,…

Fragments

At dinner, he saw a flash of a tattoo on her inner thigh. First, she is cool, collected. Then, the unexpected piquancy. *** Deep-blue sea. Deep blue sea. Deep, blue sea. See? Punctuation is absolutely everything. *** The medicine-bottle-brown eyes of a dog, pierced by dark pupils contracted and shrunken in the afternoon sunlight. Then…