Crimson the hearth where one last ember glows!
My heart’s new winter hath no such relief,
Nor thought of Spring whose blossom he hath known
Hath turned him back where Spring is banished.
Barren the heart and dead the fires there,
Blow! O ye ashes, where the winds shall please,
But cry, ’Love also is the Yearly Slain.’
“It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional. This may have nothing to do with the acts we have committed, or the humors we do go in and out of. It may be only the room — a cube — having no persuasive powers of its own. The room simply is. To occupy it, and find a metaphor there for memory, is our own fault.”
Thomas Pynchon | V.