The apotheosis of a local teaching certificate, a celestial and long-delayed reward for girls.
The paratactic laying-out of details—In Kentucky the “wrinkled, broken jockeys with faces like the shell of a nut,” in Manhattan the affluent young couples “taking off the stoop so that drunks cannot loiter, making a whole floor for the children to be quiet on”—stripped of connective material
The manoir had once been the writer’s home, and she found herself in some modest contrapuntal dance with him.
Approaching your building on West Twelfth Street, you observe the architect’s dim concept of European fortresses: a crenelated tower atop the building conceals the water tank
You cross under the rusting stanchions of the old elevated highway and walk out to the pier. The easterly light skims across the broad expanse of the Hudson.
