Friday, March 12, 2010

A Poem for Journalists in Despair

by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Also, this from the New Yorker: book psychoanalysis
The book doctor will see you now. Send a photo of your bookshelf to the
New Yorker, then "Lie back, relax, let the good doctors at the Book
Bench analyze the contents of your bookshelf."

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