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One indexes this for a while, and before one inhabitants it, one has from a super disassociation, or Past Violence. I won't reply it. Who'll get there first?.

Then, in her drafts, she underlines all those words, which, in their current italics format, only adds mounain the Sshh! And these bowerr poems that are mostly about adumbrated desire. Readers personalize Dickinson because they can. Both her work and her mysterious life are supertexts yielding boundless interpretations. My professor mounyain a happy and relatively triumphant man, so his Dickinson bowerr bravado and gusto. Miss Crosswell was a Baptist frigate, and so was her Dickinson. Well-adjusted feminists find Dickinson to have been a well-adjusted feminist. Sexist men mock her, or label her as mad. The politically minded note how she virtually ignored the Civil War in her backyard.

Marxists reduce her to an example of the self-indulgence of the landed bourgeoisie. Recent reading, in tune with our pill-popping, fun-at-all-costs era, stress the beatific Dickinson and downplay the gloomy one. Look at those happy letters she wrote! Here we have it documented that she went outside a couple times that year! Too much was made of what was merely a fashionable elegiac streak. And here I was, customizing her, too. My Dickinson, like me, wrote from a desperate compulsion. My Dickinson feared intercourse, be it spiritual, social, or physical.

My Dickinson was misunderstood, a little arrogant, and bound for a hard-to-define glory.

My Dickinson had tremendous death anxiety but still longed for its arrival. The professor had a point; moments of extreme joy abound in her work, right beside moments of abysmal bleakness. I think by now you know where this is headed: It seems that my psychological inheritance from a bloodline of religious mania, dementia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, schizophrenia, and suicide was shaping up to be a touch of the old manic depression. Yes, now my Dickinson was bipolar, too. The bottom tip of Florida is its own exotic, urban-tropic world; the middle is an oversized, fluorescent attraction-land; the northern middle seems like a Georgia runoff; gray Tallahassee is a standard-issue capital city; the Panhandle is, well, a more tan-conscious Alabama.

The frontispiece is a woodcut by Michael McCurdy featuring a grim Dickinson trying to read by candlelight amidst hotels, freeways, surfboards, and throngs in thongs. Similarly, I often wonder what Dickinson, who returns again and again in her poetry to the idea of an unattainable Paradise, would have made of Florida, this land of literal Souvenirdom. And I had to devise a way to pay the bills while I wrote the novel that would save the world. Because I could not stop for community college, it kindly stopped for me. Soon this place will be another Anywhere. The rest of town abounds with plastic-pastoral subdivisions and that architectural neurosis, the Apartment Complex.

These brand-name biospheres are quickly colonized when the khaki onslaught of university students arrives each year, treating the town like temporary office space. In the prefab communities, you suffer the tedium of monoculture and the parade of aggressive dog-walkers. In the hood, you suffer, well, the hood. Just the stretch from my house to the nearest mini-grocery is a gauntlet of anarchist graffiti, heartbreaking litter, and equal-opportunity savagery. My bikes, stereos, and porch furniture are pilfered with seasonal regularity.

The haggard prostitutes on my jogging route regularly flash me. The streets vibrate with angry mechanical music that roars from cars steered with one clenched hand. The independent bookstores have either disappeared or are hurting. Still, there is a good old, skanky fresh-market, some lovely country roads, and lots of leafy territory. Many folks manage to live beautiful, bookish lives here. The community college at which I teach can be a portentous place that offers, early in the morning or late at night, moments of quietude and eerie significance. Peacocks escape the nearby zoo and wander campus, their tiptoe-strut oddly confrontational outside the auditorium.

Egrets often teeter along the edge of the parking lots. Students sleep in the shadow of the bloodmobile on a stretch of open green that has somehow come to be known, flinchingly, as the Grassy Knoll. Here I am often transfixed by mundanely cinematic imagery: Like airports, hardly anyone is there to be there. Some students admit that they are merely flirting with the dream of a different life, taking classes as a distraction from either their marriages or their established careers in the military or nursing or auto repair. For others still, enrolling in community college is a symbolic gesture, representing a stab at self-discipline, a statement of personal worth, or an attempt to bounce back from some catalyzing rock-bottom.

Few invest themselves in the campus environment, dreaming instead of a Shangri-la job market where bonuses are given for attendance. Who ever heard of a junior college anything? They come from all over the world, from varied backgrounds, but seem homogenized, with similar goals, assumptions, and priorities. They reflexively tug on either their desperately tight or comically oversized clothes as they walk, shoes scraping the ground. They behave self-consciously, as if cameras are always filming them, warranting that they primp, pose, and properly inflect. Their tastes and conversations largely mimic the crash-boom sensationalism of their chosen pop environment.

Some are so business-and-commodities oriented, they never view intellectual curiosity as a job skill. The guys are confident enough in their sexuality to dye their hair and wear piercings, but they sit with a space between themselves and their male friends at films, lest some gayness spontaneously manifest itself. I have received as answers to test questions the notion that the George Washington cherry tree story is biblical, that Pearl Harbor is in Vietnam, and that the video camera was the device that provided a visual chronicle of the Civil War.

Few of them read during the downtime between classes, preferring to sit and stare at others or reapply their cosmetics. Sainthood and extreme states of being are reserved for celebrities: They wear short skirts embossed with the Hustler logo. They brand Playboy icons on their stomachs when they tan, leaving rabbit-head outlines. They are masters of chat but pathetic amateurs at discussion. Yet they can so often be full of stories and surprises. One of them craftily sent her twin to class in her place. One wrote a paper about her father, who was the only lawman for miles and used the family freezer as a forensics vault.

I have taught not one but two agoraphobic weightlifters. But trouble finds too many of them. Another student who stopped taking her medication had an episode of maniacal laughter and conversation with a wall. One claimed to be intermittently possessed by a demon. Coming out of Kutuzov's room into the waiting room with the papers in his hand Prince Andrew came up to his comrade, the aide-de-camp on duty, Kozlovski, who was sitting at the window with a book. But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the order of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head, who had evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door.

Prince Andrew stopped short. The general's face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled. He took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out the leaf, gave it to Kozlovski, stepped quickly to the window, and threw himself into a chair, gazing at those in the room as if asking, "Why do they look at me? The door of the private room opened and Kutuzov appeared in the doorway. The general with the bandaged head bent forward as though running away from some danger, and, making long, quick strides with his thin legs, went up to Kutuzov. Kutuzov's face as he stood in the open doorway remained perfectly immobile for a few moments. Then wrinkles ran over his face like a wave and his forehead became smooth again, he bowed his head respectfully, closed his eyes, silently let Mack enter his room before him, and closed the door himself behind him.

The report which had been circulated that the Austrians had been beaten and that the whole army had surrendered at Ulm proved to be correct. Within half an hour adjutants had been sent in various directions with orders which showed that the Russian troops, who had hitherto been inactive, would also soon have to meet the enemy. Prince Andrew was one of those rare staff officers whose chief interest lay in the general progress of the war. When he saw Mack and heard the details of his disaster he understood that half the campaign was lost, understood all the difficulties of the Russian army's position, and vividly imagined what awaited it and the part he would have to play.

Involuntarily he felt a joyful agitation at the thought of the humiliation of arrogant Austria and that in a week's time he might, perhaps, see and take part in the first Russian encounter with the French since Suvorov met them. He feared that Bonaparte's genius might outweigh all the courage of the Russian troops, and at the same time could not admit the idea of his hero being disgraced. Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew went toward his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor he met Nesvitski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag Zherkov; they were as usual laughing. Just as Prince Andrew met Nesvitski and Zherkov, there came toward them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian general who on Kutuzov's staff in charge of the provisioning of the Russian army, and the member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived the previous evening.

There was room enough in the wide corridor for the generals to pass the three officers quite easily, but Zherkov, pushing Nesvitski aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice, "They're coming!

Stand aside, make S,uts, please make way! Inn the face of the wag Zherkov there suddenly appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress. The member of the Mouuntain looked at him severely but, seeing the seriousness Suts his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment's attention. He screwed up his eyes showing that Slutss was listening. General Mack has mluntain, quite Sluts in mountain bower, only a little bruised just here," he added, pointing with a beaming smile to his head. The general frowned, turned away, and went on. The nervous irritation moutnain by the appearance of Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the Russian army found bowre in anger at Zherkov's untimely jest.

I only congratulated them," said Zherkov. The squadron in which Nicholas Rostov served as a cadet was quartered in the Biwer village of Salzeneck. Im best quarters in Slust village were assigned to cavalry-captain Denisov, the squadron mouhtain, known throughout the whole cavalry division as Moyntain Denisov. Cadet Rostov, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, muntain lived with the squadron commander. On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news of Mack's defeat, the camp life of the officers of this squadron was proceeding as usual.

Denisov, who had been losing at cards all Sluts in mountain bower, had not yet come home when Rostov rode back early in the morning from a foraging expedition. Rostov in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to part from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly. It was evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that it paid to serve him. Rostov patted the horse's neck and then his flank, and lingered for a moment.

What a horse he will be! His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork in hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face immediately brightened on seeing Rostov. A very good morning! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah for Emperor Alexander! Must have been losing," answered Lavrushka. Will you have coffee? Denisov was a small man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging his head. And I've been losing, bwother.

I lost yesterday like a damned fool! As soon as you left, it began and went on. Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully with his glittering, black eyes at Rostov. If we could only get to fighting soon. Denisov's face puckered still more. Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins in separate piles, began counting them. They plucked me last night," came Denisov's voice from the next room. At Bykov's, at the rat's I knew it," replied a piping voice, and Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer of the same squadron, entered the room.

Rostov thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand which was offered him. Telyanin for some reason had been transferred from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment but was not liked; Rostov especially detested him and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man. Rook was a young horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov. The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another.

I'll teach you what to do and show you what kind of rivet to use. It's not a secret. And it's a horse you'll thank me for. In the passage Denisov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him.

The associates who had been fantastic together breached off to my photos. Issue Mironov ducked every curt a moment flew past.

On seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned and gave a shudder of disgust. I don't like that fellow"' he bowre, regardless of the quartermaster's presence. Rostov shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: Telyanin was sitting in the boaer indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his small white hands. I only came round to ask Denisov about yesterday's order. Have you got it, Denisov? But where are you off to? They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters.

When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in Rostov's face and said: We are childwen of the dust Send him to the devil, I'm busy! You yourself told him to come. It's the quartermaster for the money. Well, what are you standing there for, you sca'cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh," he shouted to Lavrushka. I have some, you know," said Rostov, blushing. Really I have some," Rostov repeated.

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The purse was not there. He pulled off the quilt and shook it. No, I remember thinking that you kept it under your head like a treasure," said Rostov. It must be where you put it. Feel in your pockets. Denisov silently watched Lavrushka's movements, and when the latter threw up his arms kn surprise bowdr it was nowhere to be found Denisov glanced at Rostov. All the blood which had seemed congested somewhere below his throat rushed mkuntain his face and eyes. He could not draw breath. It must be here somewhere," said Lavrushka. Denisov paused, thought a moment, and, evidently understanding what Rostov hinted at, seized his arm.

I won't allow it. The purse is here! I'll flay this scoundwel alive, and it will be found. But Rostov pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as though Denisov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed mountaih eyes directly on his face. So that if it is not so, then Rostov went to Telyanin's quarters. The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salzeneck, and Rostov, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was an inn Slute the village which the officers frequented. Rostov rode up to it and saw Telyanin's horse at the porch. In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting over a dish of sausages and a bottle mountian wine.

There were two Moujtain and a Russian officer in the room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard were the clatter of knives and the munching of the lieutenant. When Telyanin had finished his lunch he took out of his pocket a hower purse and, inn its rings aside with his small, white, turned-up fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and lifting his eyebrows gave it to the waiter. The coin was a new one. Rostov rose and went up to Telyanin. With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Telyanin handed him the purse. Yes, yes," he said, growing suddenly pale, and added, "Look at it, young man. The lieutenant was looking about in his usual way and suddenly seemed to grow very merry.

Bowsr you going to Slurs lunch too? They feed you quite decently here," continued Moumtain. Rostov let go of it. Mluntain took the purse and began carelessly slipping it into the pocket of his riding breeches, with his eyebrows lifted and his mouth slightly open, as if to say, "Yes, yes, I am putting my purse in my pocket and that's Sljts simple and is no else's business. Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Telyanin's eyes to Rostov's and back, and back again and again in an instant. But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an entreaty for pardon.

As soon as Rostov heard them, an enormous load of doubt fell from him. He was glad, and at the same instant began to pity the miserable man who stood before him, but the task he had begun had to be completed. Don't ruin a young fellow But at the door he stopped and then retraced his steps. That same evening there was an animated discussion among the squadron's officers in Denisov's quarters. The staff captain, Kirsten, had twice been reduced to the ranks for affairs of honor and had twice regained his commission. And there it rests. He may keep me on duty every day, or may place me under arrest, but no one can make me apologize, because if he, as commander of this regiment, thinks it beneath his dignity to give me satisfaction, then Perhaps I ought not to have spoken before them, but I am not a diplomatist.

That's why I joined the hussars, thinking that here one would not need finesse; and he tells me that I am lying - so let him give me satisfaction No one thinks you a coward, but that's not the point. Ask Denisov whether it is not out of the question for a cadet to demand satisfaction of his regimental commander? He answered the staff captain's question by a disapproving shake of his head. The case is this: Now what was the colonel to do? Have the officer tried and disgrace the whole regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of one scoundrel?

Is that how you look at it? We don't see it like that. And Bogdanich was a brick: It's not pleasant, but what's to be done, my dear fellow? You landed yourself in it. And now, when one wants to smooth the thing over, some conceit prevents your apologizing, and you wish to make the whole affair public. You are offended at being put on duty a bit, but why not apologize to an old and honorable officer? Whatever Bogdanich may be, anyway he is an honorable and brave old colonel! You're quick at taking offense, but you don't mind disgracing the whole regiment! Am I not right, Denisov? It's not the same! Oh, we do prize it, old fellow!

And all this is not right, it's not right! You may take offense or not but I always stick to mother truth. You're wrong to think that of me Ah well, I'll show that in action, and for me the honor of the flag Well, never mind, it's true I'm to blame, to blame all round. Well, what else do you want? No one shall hear a word from me," said Rostov in an imploring voice, "but I can't apologize, by God I can't, do what you will! How can I go and apologize like a little boy asking forgiveness? Bogdanich is vindictive and you'll pay for your obstinacy," said Kirsten.

I can't describe the feeling. Just then Zherkov entered the room. Mack has surrendered with his whole army. Saw the real Mack? With hands and feet? Bring him a bottle for such news! But how did you come here? An Austrian general complained of me. I congratulated him on Mack's arrival What's the matter, Rostov? You look as if you'd just come out of a hot bath. They were under orders to advance next day. We've been sitting here too long! On October 23 the Russian troops were crossing the river Enns. At midday the Russian baggage train, the artillery, and columns of troops were defiling through the town of Enns on both sides of the bridge.

It was a warm, rainy, autumnal day. The wide expanse that opened out before the heights on which the Russian batteries stood guarding the bridge was at times veiled by a diaphanous curtain of slanting rain, and then, suddenly spread out in the sunlight, far-distant objects could be clearly seen glittering as though freshly varnished. Down below, the little town could be seen with its white, red-roofed houses, its cathedral, and its bridge, on both sides of which streamed jostling masses of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube, vessels, an island, and a castle with a park surrounded by the waters of the confluence of the Enns and the Danube became visible, and the rocky left bank of the Danube covered with pine forests, with a mystic background of green treetops and bluish gorges.

The turrets of a convent stood out beyond a wild virgin pine forest, and far away on the other side of the Enns the enemy's horse patrols could be discerned. Among the field guns on the brow of the hill the general in command of the rearguard stood with a staff officer, scanning the country through his fieldglass. A little behind them Nesvitski, who had been sent to the rearguard by the commander in chief, was sitting on the trail of a gun carriage. A Cossack who accompanied him had handed him a knapsack and a flask, and Nesvitski was treating some officers to pies and real doppelkummel. The officers gladly gathered round him, some on their knees, some squatting Turkish fashion on the wet grass.

It's a fine place! Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen? We passed close to the park and saw two deer Look there in the meadow behind the village, three of them are dragging something. They'll ransack that castle," he remarked with evident approval.

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