dinner date

One dinner with Sylvia, please. I'm on a first-name basis with her, and love her more than most. I'd have her take me to her favorite local place in London. I'd love to talk to her and try to get a glimpse into her genius. Just a small inkling. If I could write half as well as she could at age eighteen, well, I wouldn't just be writing a blog that who knows how many people actually see. I'd ask her about her poetry and if she liked the version of the cover of her novel. My guess is probably not - too many colors. Anyway, she's brilliant. Read her if you haven't. The poetry is fantastic. The novel is superb. And this crazy thing happens when you read The Bell Jar; you start to think that you're Esther. Then you put the book down and think, "What was I thinking? That's not me." Then you pick it up again and you're convinced over and over that it's you. Seriously.So.Good. You won't be sorry.

25. If you could have dinner with anyone in history, who would it be and what would you eat? | thirty things

one day at innisfree / one day that's mine there

My notes from class: "Innisfree. Find it. Go there."

I once had a professor tell me that everybody needs their own Innisfree, whether it be a physical space you go to, or just a state of mind you can visit. Everybody needs that place Yeats describes where you can escape to and find peace. It's essential to life. Essential for the soul. And if you can hum that post title, don't bother searching too much more; you're probably already there.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; 
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, 
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

::

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

::

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree | W.B. Yeats