A blur, a haze, an asymmetrical shape. Poetry is born of things, not ideas. But the image was abstract,
That was the top of the walk when he said: My house is a decayed house And mist clotted about the trees in the valley
Seagulls clashed on the rocks where strange tales of transformations failed to keep ships from being sucked and swallowed by the careless sea.
In the course of her twenty books, Annie Ernaux has deliberately put the specificity of autobiography and fiction on trial, interrogating traditional notions about the possibilities and limits of those modes.
My latest development in my growth as an artist has been experimenting with the black and white concept.
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