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  • Format: ePub

It is a painting of a Yeats poem, a canvas of a dark night where, in a star-lit glade, he wishes for the cloth of Heaven. And yes, this cloth are many stars.
She, watching the painting, can see them spread before her, but she of the picture does not see these stars and she treads on the starry cloth. His cloth. His dreamed cloth. For he dreams this cloth, and she treads on his dreams and she does not tread lightly but tramples these stars with unseeing feet. His stars, his desire. So the Buddha said. She stands in front of this painting and notices no one or nothing else. It is the most…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
It is a painting of a Yeats poem, a canvas of a dark night where, in a star-lit glade, he wishes for the cloth of Heaven. And yes, this cloth are many stars.

She, watching the painting, can see them spread before her, but she of the picture does not see these stars and she treads on the starry cloth. His cloth. His dreamed cloth. For he dreams this cloth, and she treads on his dreams and she does not tread lightly but tramples these stars with unseeing feet. His stars, his desire. So the Buddha said. She stands in front of this painting and notices no one or nothing else. It is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. She sees the pain in the poet's face. She knows this pain. The pain is as real in his face as in her memory.

No matter what the Buddha said.

:

Five boats set out. Engines can be heard as they leave the dock almost side by side. The sound of engines and the sound of gulls, even some seals farther out. Now the five boats turn into wind slapping sheets to masts. Human shapes, fast now and strong, bring out and hoist sails. A little talking back and forth, he can tell, but not much. Farther out the engines go silent one by one.

Of the five boats only four will return, but this he does not know. Instead he wishes he were on one of them, leaving the prison of feet for the water, a more slippery gravity. And he watches as the sailors soon to drown tack again and head for open water. He does not wish himself dead at this moment, but he has, and he will again. One day his wish will be granted.

The Buddha said. But he does not listen. ...


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Autorenporträt
Ulf is a Swedish name that once meant Wolf. So, yes, Wolf Wolf, that's me.

I was born Ulf Ronnquist one snowy night in late October, in one of those northern Swedish towns that are little more than a clearing in the forest.

Fast forward through twenty Swedish years, ten or so English ones, and another twenty-four in the US and you'll find me in front of an immigrations officer conducting the final citizenship interview, at the end of which he asks me, "What name would you like on your passport?"

And here I recall what a friend had told me, that you can pick just about any name you want at this point, and I heard me say "Ulf Wolf."

That's how it happened. Scout's honor.

Of course, I had been using Ulf Wolf as a pen name for some time before this interview, but I hadn't really planned to adopt that as my official U.S. name. But I did.

I have written stories all my life. Initially in Swedish, but for the last twenty or so years in English. To date I have written six novels, four novellas and two scores of stories; along with many songs and poems.

My writing focus these days is on life's important questions (in my view): Who are we? What are we doing here? And how do we break out of this prison?