Talking about one’s stories is a little too much like nailing a dog to the floor — you can get it to stay put that way but it doesn’t do much for the dog.
Talking about one’s stories is a little too much like nailing a dog to the floor — you can get it to stay put that way but it doesn’t do much for the dog.
“Such wast thou,
Who art now
But buried dust and rusted skeleton.
Above the bones and mire,
Motionless, placed in vain,
Mute mirror of the flight of speeding years,
Sole guard of grief
Sole guard of memory
Standeth this image of the beauty sped.”
Ezra Pound | “Her Monument, the Image Cut Thereon”