book review

On Writing
By Stephen King

Did you murder that man Stephen?

wakefulness

hark i hear the music come
sweet attendant of the dark
not bitterness nor yet regret
but bathos pathos listen hark
a certain call to greatness
chimes upon the midnight air
poems i have yet to write
arise and bid me hear them there
sweetest softness of the dark
haunted melodies of night
that whisper in the silences
now up now weep now write
a certain call to greatness
it chimes upon the midnight air
how dared i hope for triumph
till first i knew despair

triumph of a raconteur called horse

Dinner with the Murphys.
The noble Heelers is holding forth.
"I was sitting in the Tearman cafe with a friend," quoth I, "and I asked her did she believe in God. And she paused and then said: Yes, yes, I do believe in God. And right that moment a beautiful blue butterfly flew down from the rafters and landed on the lip of her cup. We both stared at it. It flew over to the window and fluttered there beside us for a few minutes. Then it flew off. What do you think that means?"
"It means," said Tom Murphy, "that the Tearman is a very unhygienic cafe. The place is full of feckin butterflies."