Last night I learned that Thoreau’s name was pronounced THOR-oh. In Concord they teach the schoolchildren to pronounce it thus. Guy Davenport says that Kierkegaard—Churchyard, beautiful name—is pronounced Kier-ke-gore. No one pronounces Van Gogh correctly, thank God. Is it Randall Ja-REL or JARE-ell? I mispronounced Cioran’s name for most of my life. Someone the other day said Donald Bar-thelm in my hearing. How do you pronounce Schillebeeckx? Why do we say Ben-ya-meen but not Valter? In learned British society, until relatively recently, it was considered barbarous to pronounce Don Quixote or Don Juan correctly. I once said “Aristotle” to an Italian girl a dozen times before she exclaimed, “Ah! Aris-TOTE-lay!” Are we still supposed to say Toke-ville?
"The exits could be in front of you, to your left, to your right, and/or behind you." So I can cross "directly overhead" off the list
Plastic Robbins Band
By Michael Robbins
I bit my penis off at three.
Unless — no, wait — that wasn’t me.
I stitched my penis, which I hate,
onto the face of my friend Kate.
Why would you want to write such things?
Nothing makes poetry happen.
I look into my heart and creep.
My heart is lovely, dark and deep.
I kiss your trash. My boobs are fake.
I have promises to break.