I have become convinced that language touches nothing but itself, that it never reaches beyond itself. But this is not the bad news that a lover of tradition or of Permanent Things might take it to be...
Looking out the window;
A skiff of Michigan snow
Lies in “innocence” there
Like a story’s opening line.
“Once there was a,” maybe
Or “Long ago,” perhaps
Not a blow to the head
Or boot to one’s behind
But a silent invitation
To something still unspoken.
Tempting as it is...
I find myself for a moment in the interesting position of not knowing whether what I have to say should be regarded as something long known and self-evident or something completely new and strange. I suspect,...
In response to an earlier post on The Imaginative Conservative, a valued colleague asked me if I would clarify how I understand the relationship between my attraction to so-called "postmodern" thinkers, like Michel Foucault and Jacques Derrida,...
I have a small and secret desire, well-hid.
Secret from whom, you ask?
Secret from me, I suspect,
Or maybe I am a suspect, secretly,
This is the week to bring a secret forth
Not by telling, no "big...
Those of us who identify in various ways as “conservative,” especially in academic settings, have a story that we like to tell. It is a story wherein we are the heroes, and the villain bears the name “relativism.” We all believe in...
That “friend” is now so widely verbified
Online (I friended someone new just now)
Calls friendship into some degree of question
Does it not? Perhaps “that ship has sailed”?
And does this not imply a shipping charge
If ship is...
Laughter dies a cruel but temporary death
only seconds after my arrival home.
Withered amidst strain; slackening, slighted.Bitten through, the instant hangs hateful and hard,
typically lacking grace and form.Evening greetings are lost...