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Snow, death, and the bewildered herd
As I write these words, the house is being buried in a snowstorm. Heavy flakes fall slowly and silently as a contemplative peace muffles the frenetic agitation and speed of a world gone mad. A beautiful gift like this has no price, though there are those who would like to set one, as they do on everything. In my mind’s eye I see Boris Pasternak’s Yurii Zhivago, sitting in the penumbra of an oil lamp in the snowy night stillness of Varykino, scratching out his poems in a state of inspired possession. Outside the wolves howl. Inside the bedroom, his doomed lover, Lara, and her daughter sleep peacefully. The wolves are always howling. Continue reading → Bev Conover Editor & Publisher Intrepid Report https://www.intrepidreport.com https://www.facebook.com/intrepidreport http://twitter.com/#!/Intrepid_Report [email protected]
Source: http://www.intrepidreport.com/archives/20717
