The Eve of St. Agnes

Perhaps the northwester that had chased us all the way had something to do with it, for it was almost a blizzard out of New York.

Up in Central Park the English sparrow, like Keats' St. Agnes Eve owl, for all his feathers was a cold.

The little children of the rich, parading the walks with bare knees and nursemaids, were blue with the chill and might well envy the little children of the poor for whom the charitable provide stockings.

Even out at sea the wind and cold seemed to chill the water till it was made of blue shivers and gooseflesh combers.

Yeah.

I do want to come back to the title, Otherwhere, which I thought I had never heard that word before, and then I read that Keats used the word in The Eve of St. Agnes, but would you explain?

Well, it's just, you know, I was thinking of a title and I thought, I'll never be able to title this book because none of the books will be happy with any of the titles because they'll all think I'm playing favorites because, you know, I don't know.

I think of them as beings so I didn't have a title and I'm no good at titling anything.

Perhaps the northwester that had chased us all the way had something to do with it, for it was almost a blizzard out of New York.

Up in Central Park, the English sparrow, like Keats' St. Agnes Eve owl, for all his feathers was a cold.

The little children of the rich, parading the walks with bare knees and nursemaids, were blue with the chill and might well envy the little children of the poor for whom the charitable provide stockings.

Even out at sea, the wind and cold seemed to chill the water till it was made of blue shivers and gooseflesh combers.

Outside, the snow sparkled in the pure winter night, the long lance windows of the college library shone yellow-paneled through the darkness, and there would be the occasional interruption of light-hearted classmates.

How perfectly it all chimed into the mood of St. Agnes Eve.

The opening door would bring a gust of lively sound from down the corridor, a swelling jingle of music, shouts from some humorous quote roughhouse unquote, probably those sophomores on the floor below.

The boisterous midnight festive clarion, the kettledrum and far-heard clarinet, affray his ears though but in dying tone, the hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.