but none, I think, do there tango

Good morning, dearest. I'm kicking myself for not having checked out Michael Chabon's Maps and Legends. I just wasn't focused on it - I was searching the shelves for The Duchess of Malfi, by John Webster, which I've never read but sounds good except that my eyes glaze over when I attempt it on gutenberg so I thought a hard copy would be better and best yet would be to see a production a review of one of which I read the other day (I put my trust in the reader comments).

from Whispers of Immortality, T. S. Eliot

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

***

John Webster (c. 1580 - c. 1625), the English dramatist, whose plays The Duchess of Malfi and The White Devil are redolent of violent death.
***
I took a walk in the spacious yard and graveyards of the church down the road this morning. There was a tombstone of a Henry James - another 19th century Henry James. And there was a tombstone that bore the names of a husband and wife. The husband died at age 31 or 32, and his wife, buried with him, lived for another nearly 60 years. Isn't that tragic?










There is hope for you and me yet, darling.
We're both still alive.

***
To end on a light note, this is an evening that I think we would greatly enjoy together. Embracing you, darling.