Whew, the day certainly had a funny colour to it – a harp light, but livid, bilious, as if some knot of eco-scuzz still lingered in its lungs
She had wandered through these days desultorily, enjoying the odd mix of memories and emotions that playfully showed their shadows and vanished again.
Like Grover's house, the Big Houses of the estates also had faces, but without such plain, gambreled honesty
Hence, adventitious lectures about tale-telling and geometry.
What she’s saying is that manifestos, as a genre, aspire to an impossible kind of exigence. They conjure feelings of immediacy that cannot be borne out since, by nature, any published manifesto is doomed to make a delayed entrance
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