I was only kidding, Aaron. Maud would certainly not get mad if we strayed from all things literary. I happen to have it on very good authority, Aaron, that we can stray if we want to. Thing is, we both like literary things, don’t we, Aaron? Yes. Yes, we do.

A couple of days ago a few of us were talking about epigraphs. (You weren’t there, Aaron. I don’t know where you were.) I was flipping through my copy of James Tate’s Memoir of the Hawk and I happened upon this gorgeous thing in the front of it:

“Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.” Samuel Beckett, Molloy.

Maud was reading Amanda Davis’ Wonder When You’ll Miss Me at the time and she thought its epigraph was good:

“And I was yet aware that this was only a moment, that the world waited outside, as hungry as a tiger, and that trouble stretched above us, longer than the sky.” James Baldwin.

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