[this bot will finally be returning for the final book soon. apologies for the delay —Ed.]

Selah.

“Oh, Dad. Oh, Dad.”

Go, litel bok.

Couldn’t that lady cut herself, standing on that seashell?

“Dad? We truly want to bring the children. But they won’t understand at all, if you just sit and don’t say anything. They’ll be frightened. Dad?”

You know I can’t stand Shakespeare’s plays, but yours are worse.

A symphony is no joke.

I do at least three paintings a day in my head. What s the use of spoiling canvas when nobody will buy anything?

“Dad? Please? You can’t just sit there and stare. Talk to us. Answer us, Dad. We love you, you know?”

Orchestra play like pig.

A sentence consists of a noun and a verb. If you want to use an adjective, come and ask me first.

Rosie, You Are My Posy.

“Dad? Dad? Say something.”

Light? Brightness?

Did anyone essentially ever know, with Mozart?

Does anyone know any longer where Spinoza is buried?

Where Rembrandt?

Where Marlowe?

When, dammit, that terrificness?

Leonardo.

I have wasted my hours.

Said Leonardo at the end of his life.

But the brightness, was that when the brightness occurred?

Going in to take a nap he is now not sure he is really remembering having gone in to take at all?

That terrificness, that extraordinary flooding.

Your Majesty’s horse knows more about art than you do.

Says someone in Heywood’s A Woman Killed with Kindness.

Plus the sense that Author could also not seem quite able to make his way across?

Hovering there, did he almost seem to be?

O God! O God! That it were possible

To undo things done; to call back yesterday

Among the wreaths and bouquets at the funeral of Verlaine—one nodding bunch of violets.

Brought by Mallarmé.

And after the corridor? This even newer image of Author’s bed having gotten to be such a vast distance across the room?

Why can’t Author tell whether he is imagining that or remembering it?

His secretary’s recollection that in his last moments Henry James asked to hear the sounds of her Remington—typing one of his manuscripts.

I like a view but I like to sit with my back to it.

Yis-ga-dal v’yis-ka-dash sh’may rab-bo.

As if Author’s Adidas have whims of their own.