Interview with Sarah Waters. Sort of.

The Night Watch

Ten Top Trivia Tips about HB!

1. HB is the only bird that can swim but not fly.
2. HB was first grown in America by the grandmother Maria Ann Smith, from whom her name comes!
3. People used to believe that dressing their male children as HB would protect them from evil spirits.
4. HB never said 'Play it again, Sam'.
5. HB can jump up to sixteen times her own height.
6. A lump of HB the size of a matchbox can be flattened into a sheet the size of a tennis court.
7. If every star in the Milky Way was a grain of salt they would fill HB!
8. Marie Antoinette never said 'let them eat cake' - this is a mistranslation of 'let them eat HB'.
9. The Eskimos have over fifty words for HB.
10. If you cut HB in half and count the number of seeds inside, you will know how many children you are going to have.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

Cat in an Empty Apartment

I love this poem so much, that I put it up in one of the student common rooms. What usually is put up on that board is what to do during a fire drill, about guest lectures, student parties and stuff like that. The poem is still there (six months later), and sometimes I can see a student stop to read it.

'Cat in an Empty Apartment'

Die—you can't do that to a cat.
Since what can a cat do
in an empty apartment?
Climb the walls?
Rub up against the furniture?
Nothing seems different here,
but nothing is the same.
Nothing has been moved,
but there's more space.
And at nighttime no lamps are lit.

Footsteps on the staircase,
but they're new ones.
The hand that puts fish on the saucer
has changed, too.

Something doesn't start
at its usual time.
Something doesn't happen
as it should.
Someone was always, always here,
then suddenly disappeared
and stubbornly stays disappeared.

Every closet has been examined.
Every shelf has been explored.
Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
A commandment was even broken,
papers scattered everywhere.
What remains to be done.
Just sleep and wait.

Just wait till he turns up,
just let him show his face.
Will he ever get a lesson
on what not to do to a cat.
Sidle toward him
as if unwilling
and ever so slow
on visibly offended paws,
and no leaps or squeals at least to start.

-- Wislawa Szymborska

I found this poem on Minstrels. Here's what they write:
(Translated from the Polish by Joanna Maria Trzeciak)

In newsgroups devoted to pets, the passing of a beloved cat is often
mentioned to a lot of sympathy. But often it is the owner who dies while the
cat is the survivor, though this eventuality has never been posted to my
knowledge.

This is a wonderful poem by one of my favorites, Wyslawa Szymborska, the
Polish poet who won the Nobel a few years ago. It is just like her to take
an unexpected point of view, a little thing perhaps, and open a whole world.

Add this to the latest poems on cats.

John

[Links]

Biography of Szymborska and of Trzeciak.

Offering and Rebuff

I could love you
as dry roots love rain.
I could hold you
as branches in the wind
brandish petals.
Forgive me for speaking so soon.

Let your heart look
on white sea spray
and be lonely.

Love is a fool star.

You and a ring of stars
may mention my name
and then forget me.

Love is a fool star.

-- Carl Sandburg

Snowy Morning

When we were nine or ten and used to play
at dying — hands clasped to the chest,
Goodbye, beautiful world, I love you! —
we didn't believe it could ever really be done.

Say goodbye to everything? A gunshot wound
in 'Alias Smith and Jones' could set us thinking —
please please don't die — or a feathered mess
that had been a pigeon squashed on the road.

Even Divinity class, that final sponge of vinegar
on a speartip. Goodbye, beautiful vinegar.
Now, under the shag of decades, after so much
contact with things, it takes a morning like this.

Snow has fallen, a light crust. On the white field
green trails zigzag where the horses wandered,
a crazy scribble shows where they fed.
There they are now, two statues stooping.

All the ewes are sitting, thawing their grass.
Puddles crunch like caramel. Little snowfalls
crumble down a hedge. The silver-birch
trembles with its own twigs' shadows.

And under the rusty chestnut I walk
through a rain of crystals. There isn't much to say.
This is a day that decides by itself to be beautiful.
This field is a bride. How are we to say goodbye?

HENRY SHUKMAN
From "In Dr No's Garden" (Cape, 2001)