Thirteen clocks by James Thurber

I never know,” the Golux said. “My mother was a witch, but rather mediocre in her way. When she tried to turn a thing to gold, it turned to clay, and when she changed her rivals into fish, all she ever got was mermaids.”

“His nights were spent in evil dreams, and his days were given to wicked schemes.”

James Thurber’s Thirteen clocks makes for such brilliant reading. I have read prose which has been stuffily squished into verse, but I have never before read poetry relaxedly reposing amongst lines, wide, roomy and free. And his concept of concretizing Time works beautifully.

Travelers and mariners would look up at the gloomy castle on the lonely hill and say, “Time lies frozen there. It’s always Then. It’s never Now.”The cold Duke was afraid of Now, for Now has warmth and urgency, and Then is dead and buried.

A lovely read indeed

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