The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8

by Beth Brower

All related thoughts end with the realisation that a good deal of life is watching those we love consider the stupidest of possibilities. Why would God trust humankind if—in the end—we are all fools?

“Wealth, cleverness, and praise are not the same as excellence of character, Emma,” my mother used to tell me. To which my father would say under his breath, “But do also be clever, if you can.”

What was the exact door that opened, I wonder, and when was the opening, that brought me to such a night?

I’ve never considered the cello as companion for dawn. One would think to pair it with falling evening, with deepest night. But the instrument did seem to understand the dream state just before waking.

That every day should leave some part Free for a sabbath of the heart.

“Only life does not play lightly with its human pieces.” I threw my second horseshoe and—glory be—it

“The violent red was to cast a sickly pallor about your person, but now I find you the picture of health!