The Sonnets by Lennard J. Davis

By Lennard J. Davis

During this darkly satirical novel, a Columbia collage English professor's lifestyles is became the other way up whilst it begins to persist with the plot of Shakespeare's sonnets.

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Right! That is why I need to test my theory. ” “Well, I’m not sure. I’d have to work on it a bit. Shall I try? ” Without waiting for an answer she got up, closed her eyes, and touched my forehead with her fingers. She would stop for a second, write down a series of notes on a musical score, and then continue. At first her touch was a shock to me. Her fingers were warm with her enthusiasm. They touched my brow lightly. I was tense but began to relax. I felt as if I were being read, being recorded, by her fingers.

Elmo’s Fire, that made one see peculiar brilliances. My Mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun 33 The first time I saw Chantal in my class, I had to laugh. She was a preposterous dresser and had on a kind of gown that belonged in a Jean Harlow movie. It was black and had long slits up the front revealing her dusky legs. She said it was the rage in Italy. Fine, but not at nine in the morning on a dreary day at Columbia. Clearly, some of the men in the class thought of her as a black Athena. But she was no goddess; she walked on the ground.

But quickly dark clouds overtook us on our way. ” Anne asked in a practical way. ” she said and shuddered. “You have a bizarre imagination. Do you have to be so perverse. ” The rain did not take its time coming, and we found ourselves with storm-beaten faces, dripping with water as if we had been sobbing. Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all 25 “Let’s go back,” I said, feeling that the water was a kind of salve. We trudged back to the hotel. We had to take off our wet clothes, dripping onto the quaint appointments of the room filled with the small, flowered ornaments and the chintz that makes us feel we are really in an inn and not in someone else’s house.

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