In the 3,000 letters written by Virginia Wolff between 1930 and 1941,
she does not once express anxiety about the size of her rear end.

“To have aesthetics,” says Robert, “is to be a snob.
To be above certain things—even parts of yourself.”

Aldous Huxley on his deathbed, unable to speak,
writes on a white pad to Evelyn, his wife: the note:
                                                 “100 micrograms mescaline, IM.”

She nods and brings it back in an hour—
I tell this story several times to Kath, until I am sure she gets my point.

Walking in Jackson Park, I find a great two-hundred-year-old oak,
extending its huge dark limbs in all directions, like an antler
                                                 or a chandelier.

I stand and stare at it, as at a letter in an alphabet I have forgotten.
But I am a creature who still has not learned to read
—not even to worship, not even to live without dishonesty.

The nurse’s aide says, “Did we have a bowel movement today,
                                                 Mr. Mandela?”
and he looks at her with so much tolerance and calm,
it is like the sea looking back at the land.

In the cancer clinic waiting room, the patients are mostly quiet.
Sometimes they talk about the football game,
                                                 or the weather predicted for tomorrow.