How pleasant the rooms were, how comforting the distresses of New Yorkers, their insomnias filled with words, their patient exegesis of surprising terrors.
How pleasant the rooms were, how comforting the distresses of New Yorkers, their insomnias filled with words, their patient exegesis of surprising terrors.
To become a sacerdotal offering, very much like those pale schoolteachers in Latin America, men from the poor villages, sweating in their black suits and white shirts, receiving and giving a peculiar list of punishments in their visionary calling.
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
