Nights of October, of frail, sickle moons, when the earth conceals the shining accomplice of assassins in its shadow, to make everything all the more mysterious —
Angela Carter, from Black Venus in “Burning Your Boats: The Collected Short Stories”
Where are you? I could crush you into my pores. I’ve never passed such days. A soulless existence, in that I live purely the presence of this shape and weight, – all my sense is utterly with you.
Ted Hughes, from ‘Letters of Ted Hughes’ — Sylvia Plath, 20th-22nd October 1956
The moon is rising but the reluctant day lingers upon the sea and sky. The sea is dabbled with a pink the colour of unripe cherries, and in the sky there is a flying yellow light like the wings of canaries. Very stubborn and solid are the trunks of the palm trees. Springing from their tops the stiff green bouquets seem to cut into the evening air and among them, the blue gum trees, tall and slender with sickle-shaped leaves and drooping branches half blue, half violet. The moon is just over the mountain behind the village. The dogs know she is there; already they begin to howl and bark. The fishermen are shouting and whistling to one another as they bring in their boats, some young boys are singing in half-broken voices down by the shore, and there is a noise of children crying, little children with burnt cheeks and sand between their toes being carried to bed…
I am tired, blissfully tired. Do you suppose that daisies feel blissfully tired when they shut for the night and the dews descend upon them?
Katherine Mansfield, the complete works of Katherine Mansfield
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