jun 22, 2011
“―You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?
―Very good. Well?
―There was a battle, sir.
―Very good. Where?
The boy’s blank face asked the blank window.
Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled
it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake’s wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all
space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What’s left us
We begin Chapter 2, and find Stephen in the classroom with old battles, radical poets, and the daughters of memory.