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Vivienne Eliot (b. Vivienne Haigh-Wood)
B. 5.1888 Bury, England / D. 1.1947 London

Because I do not choose to give him satisfaction, I keep the husband on my shelf of the Americans, sometimes.
Today as I approached the altar, one among twenty or so shuffling women in sweaters, I felt clumsy, diffident. I hadnít gotten the ashes in years, didnít know what to do with my hair.
Because she edited, or because she did it well, she would not experience forgiveness.
It is nearóa day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness! Like blackness spread upon the mountains a great and powerful army comes, their like has never been. . .like I don't know this, like I donít watch the McNeil-Lehrer Report!
Because he could not hope to escape the judgment of god-bothered American women (whom he knew well), he fled
Flat-footing up to the altar in our comfies, women of colors, come to be stained with a protective X.
To the garden, to the spirit of the garden, to the blue rocks.
When shoulder to shoulder we stood, suddenly I saw ruins. There were blackened slabs of windowed wall, the turnings of a schoolhouse stair exposed, and cordoned pits billowing pollution into the weak face of the London noonday.

Consolation Site: This bag of ferrets

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