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Murmurs of French must have blanketed the great– cocooning 'round Salinger, lilting for Whitman– flitting by Carroll and flirting with Eliot, sighing on Plato, marching in Chaucer, nuzzling up Dickinson, lying with Hemingway, giggling to Alcott and gasping at Plath. Murmurs of French must have borne their babe souls, gifting them music instead of dry words. Murmurs of French, the language of beauty, just buzz past my ears 'fore I swat them away. It is fitting, I think, that my tongue should collapse upon trying merci or a bon appétit, and the lone French I can muster is notably stolen from the notoriety of a Madame Marmalade.
0
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 8:22 AM UTC
Why I'll Never Write for Others
Murmurs of French must have blanketed the great– cocooning 'round Salinger, lilting for Whitman– flitting by Carroll and flirting with Eliot, sighing on Plato, marching in Chaucer, nuzzling up Dickinson, lying with Hemingway, giggling to Alcott and gasping at Plath. Murmurs of French must have borne their babe souls, gifting them music instead of dry words. Murmurs of French, the language of beauty, just buzz past my ears 'fore I swat them away. It is fitting, I think, that my tongue should collapse upon trying merci or a bon appétit, and the lone French I can muster is notably stolen from the notoriety of a Madame Marmalade.
zoe
Written by
zoe
American
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 8:22 AM UTC
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