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Belief in one’s identity as a poet or writer prior to the acid test of publication is as naive and harmless as the youthful belief in one’s immortality…and the inevitable disillusionment is just as painful.
She had always felt that the essence of human experience lay not primarily in the peak experiences, the wedding days and triumphs which stood out in the memory like dates circled in red on old calendars, but, rather, in the unself-conscious flow of little things—the weekend afternoon with each member of the family engaged in his or her own pursuit, their crossings and connections casual, dialogues imminently forgettable, but the sum of such hours creating a synergy which was important and eternal.
“Will we ever see Mommy again?” Rachel asked between sobs. She had asked this each time. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” responded Sol truthfully.
“Considering that, all hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heavens will; She can, though every face will scowl And every windy quarter howl Or every bellows burst, be happy still.” Sol Weintraub asked, “William Butler Yeats?” Silenus nodded. “ ‘A Prayer for My Daughter.’
