by John Updike
One size fits all. The shape or coloration
of the god or high heaven matters less
than that there is one, somehow, somewhere, hearing
the hasty prayer and chalking up the mite
the widow brings to the temple, A child
alone with horrid verities cries out
for there to be a limit, a warm wall
whose stones give back an answer, however faint.
Strange, the extravagance of it—who needs
those eighteen-armed black Kalis, those musty saints
whose bones and bleeding wounds appall good taste,
those joss sticks, houris, gilded Buddhas, books
Moroni etched in tedious detail?
We do; we need more worlds. This one will fail.
April 1, 2011
- My friend & fellow #ThatCamp #039;er @PennamitePLR interviewed on the NARA blog about her flickr commons art: http://bit.ly/f9RRXu #
- Looking for the spreadsheet that lists academic institutions using wordpress. Anyone have that link handy? @boone @patrick_mj #
- Today: got locked out of home & office; left car keys on front seat of unlocked car all day; left wallet in car while getting dinner. Sigh. #
- Really looking forward to tonight's episode of "Historians in the Hot Tub." #lifeofahistorian #
- Trying to decide if having such an amazing weekend makes it easier to return back to the workweek tomorrow, or harder… #bringit2011 #
- RT @westcenter: By the numbers. FWIW. Bottom line shows humanities really do make money (UCLA Today) http://bit.ly/grQTU0 #