In May of the eleventh year Don said: "I want to read the journal."They were in the study, both journals on the desk, the May morning coming through the study window in that particular way May has—not the sharp light of March or the heavy gold of September but something in between, a light that seemed to hold the promise of summer without yet committing to it. Ernest looked up from the correspondence. The correspondence was about the book's final permissions, a tedious thing involving a quotation from a poem whose rights had changed hands twice since the poem was written. He had been working through it with the patience he brought to things that needed doing but did not need his full attention, and Don's voice had drawn him out of the half-attention entirely."Which part," he said. Not a refusal. A request for specification. The journal was large, eleven years of entries across multiple volumes, and Don had read most of it already in pieces—had been reading it for years, in fact, sin
ปรับปรุงล่าสุด : 2026-05-10 อ่านเพิ่มเติม