Opening a path for yourself, . . .

Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler.

. . . with a paper-knife . . .
Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit.
. . . in the barrier of . . .
Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler.
. . . strange pages of . . .
James Joyce, Ulysses.
. . . virgin manuscript . . .
E. Phillips Oppenheim, The Master Mummer.
. . . becomes linked with the thoughts of
how much the word contains and conceals: you cut your way through your
reading as if through a dense forest.
Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler.
Where now?
James Joyce, Ulysses.
Drove into town, home with R., . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Thursday, January 4, 1872).
. . . through . . .
Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler.
. . . fog, darkness, and snow, . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Thursday, January 4, 1872).
We both felt . . .
Charles Dickens, Bleak House.
. . . dazed, contemplating that whiteness . . .
Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler.
. . . as if each of us were hypnotized . . .
R.D. Laing, The Politics of the Family.
. . . looking fixedly at . . .
Charles Dickens, Bleak House.
. . . blank manuscript pages . . .
Patrick Kavanaugh, The Spiritual Lives of the Great Composers.
. . . (themselves a rustling woods)
James Richardson, Excerpt from “Essay On Wood.”
As Wagner journeyed . . .
Martin J. Bollinger, Warriors and Wizards: The Development and
 Defeat of Radio Controlled Glide Bombs of the Third
Reich.
. . . through the wilderness, his mind moved in its own direction; the
two trajectories, one physical, the other mental, were joined . . .
Dan Chiasson, Paper Trail: The Material Poetry of Susan Howe.
. . . in a metaphorical dance
Catherine Ann McMonagle, Dancing Feminisms and
Intertextuality.
I at last . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Thursday, June 3, 1869).
. . . a blanket to my chin . . .
Robert Frost, Excerpt from “An Unstamped Letter in Our Rural
Letter Box.”
. . . thought of the times when I lived here against all the
rules like a dream figure, and when this landscape seemed so appropriate.
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Thursday, January 4, 1872).
Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do
we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent
of our relations.
Henry David Thoreau, Walden.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost, Excerpt from “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy
Evening.”
 What does it mean? Why this:
Morris Bishop, Petrarch.
In the middle of the journey . . .
Leonard Garment, Crazy Rhythm.
. . . in long winter nights . . .
Richard Wagner, Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg.
. . . we find ourselves in dark woods where the right path
seems lost. But even so melancholy a poet saw for a prophetic moment
that at the end of the confusion . . .
Leonard Garment, Crazy Rhythm.
. . . in the rosy light of morning . . .
Richard Wagner, Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg.
. . . there is sometimes a clearing in whose sunlight things appear
more distinct and precious than ever before.
Leonard Garment, Crazy Rhythm.
Can you conceive what new and vital power I draw from living in the
wilderness?
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust.
Returning home . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Wednesday, March 6, 1872).
. . . I felt as if I had come out of a bleak, harsh woods into a cozy lair.
Janet Malcolm, Psychoanalysis: The Impossible Profession.
—In the evening read more of Nietzsche's book, which gives R. ever-
increasing satisfaction, but we wonder where the public for it will be found.
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Thursday, January 4, 1872).
On my way upstairs to bed I stopped to . . .
Josh Short, The Workers All Call Daddy Cap’n.
. . . sit on my spiral staircase and reflect, reflect, until the mildness of
my thoughts lulls and calms me; and then from downstairs I hear music:
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (Tuesday, September 30, 1879).
I was lost, so to speak, in the milky way.
James Joyce, Ulysses.
Only within. Inside the brain
Robert Frost, Excerpt from “An Unstamped Letter in Our Rural
Letter Box.”
An indescribable impression—
 Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (Tuesday, July 8, 1879).
All my senses now want to sink into slumber.
Hermann Hesse, Excerpt from “Going to Sleep.”
Winter’s revenant invites you into it, and there you lie while the
bleached sheet . . .
V. Penelope Pelizzon, Human Field.
. . . of snow accumulating . . .
Caleb Calhoun, Early Snow Storm Throws Blanket on Holiday.
. . . just beyond the window pane . . .
Angel Xuan Chang, A Ghost Outside My Window.
. . . translates you to an angel in a solitary bed.
V. Penelope Pelizzon, Human Field.