“
Now reading
The Pillow and the Book
About a thousand years ago, sick for lost love sleepless alone I lay from red dayfall though black to morning gray trying to read Ulysses in a borrowed room, while yesterday's rejections played their act below the ecstasies of Molly Bloom, and the intolerable gray page of print, in timeless nonsense, beat my eyes, to mock a lonely universe of sheets and clock where I, king in an empty house and a night cohabited by solitude and rage, killed time into daylight, and then got up, and left the place, and never set eyes upon that furniture again of white-night torment. O all poor adolescents, what unsleeps you must endure, to span with literature and life that deadly space between the boy and man.