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@enheriter
#ENHERITER ———— this is how to lose control of your life, one second at a time: featuring characters affiliated with & dependent on whistledownhq
vogeti narayana naidu, commodore ................ INTRO / THREADS
aloysius ponsonby, composer/musician ............ INTRO / THREADS
gif pack credits. ram charan / jacob anderson
Who: @enheriter
Where: palace gardens
There were two things Cat had prayed for after leaving that cursed inn on the way to London. The first was that she never hear word of her stupid lie again. This prayer had been dashed rather quickly (although her father at least had not yet heard word of it).
The second was that she never see the rude man who had caused her to make this false claim again. That seemed reasonable, for London was huge, certainly compared to where she had grown up.
Of course it would be her debut where this hope was dashed. She was no doubt being punished, and punishments always worked best when done in the most dramatic of ways.
It was a particularly large display of flowers that did Catherine in. The sight of them, surely not all in season, and so perfect in colour, led her to not pay attention to where she was going. Did not see the back she bumped into, sending lemonade spilling from her hands. “I am so sor…” her soft, open expression hardened instantly. “Oh.” She spoke shortly. “It is you.”
lemonade spills from a stranger’s hands and onto his clothes, staining finely-woven white lawn cloth imported directly from overseas for this very occasion, his linen cravat — painstakingly starched by his washerwoman, elaborately tied so as to rival beau brummell in sheer meticulousness — losing its delicate arch and somewhat flopping around rather inelegantly. it behoves him to discover that he’s kept a grip on himself, though the grip he has on his glass could not be similarly described: knuckles almost straining against skin; his smile, more like a grimace. ❛ me, ❜ aloysius repeats, his glum tone of voice doubtless mirroring the dismay felt by the other. for what it’s worth, he did try to make amends for his slight by dispelling any notion of fortune-seeking before it could swirl around the lady, but he cannot help but rue his kindness now. clearly no amount of wealth can make up for good manners. ❛ you do realise, ❜ he starts, ❛ that every action is being watched, yes? ❜ ❛ —though i dare say poor manners would matter little, ❜ he adds, almost certainly musing out loud, but also doubtlessly musing out loud for her to hear, ❛ for those in want of great fortune. ❜
“He could break free. But the terror of free will was vertiginous. Hence, he would invoke the rules which were there before him, to shake off his shoulders the unbearable weight of the choice, so that later on he could forgive himself for what he had done to his own life. So he did the sole thing he could bear doing. He returned home […]”
— Stefania Mela, Stalemate
location: the english opera house, london
⊰ @enheriter. ⊱
his fingers stroke the keys and the audience is arrested from the first note. it fills the space with its small voice, melancholic and mournful, before falling on enraptured ears. he strikes a similar image on stage, she thinks. the set pieces are perfection at every angle, every brushstroke careful and steady, but the stars in the backdrop are distant from each other, the clouds stormy in color. aloysius sits alone on the bench with his hands poised and completes the portrait of a man trapped in divine isolation.
an eternity passes before the second note — this one stronger as time quickens to its normal pace. a piece of music begins to unfold itself before her in all its hollow prestige and she’s overcome with a question: is this his personal composition? it must be, for she knows she is witnessing something she should not. it is the exposed bone of his ribcage peeking from underneath all the muscle and sinew, rawness and ugliness and realness — something he would not want her to be privy to, but she is held hostage all the same. from up in her box it looks as if the piano and its player are caught between the crescent shape of the orchestra and the audience; all together yet so solitary, so haunting. the melody becomes taboo to her ears and she feels her heart flutter wildly in her throat.
it’s only when her lady’s maid and chaperone leans forward from somewhere behind her with a whispered, “miss clarissa? are you feeling faint?”, that she realizes her fingers are white-knuckled around the arms of her chair, breath impossible to summon.
all the propriety in the world cannot keep her still once the spell is broken. she is moving out of her seat, out of the box, soon out of the opera house, all sensations and awareness dulled until the cool night air floods against her warm cheeks. rissa’s breaths come to her in gasps and she cannot be sorry for making a scene on the outside steps of the opera house. relief her lungs remember how to breathe, relief that she is free is all that occupies her mind.
“miss, miss!” her maid cries close behind, all worry. the poor girl ran after her all the way to the entrance, but it is a feat to summon sympathy in the state she is currently in. a dismissive wave is all she can manage, hand dropping to fist in the soft pink silks of her gown. “stand back. away, please.” it’s rude of her to treat anyone so offhand, not because polite society dictates one must treat their workers well, but because of her staunch belief that everyone is equal. she knows this, and still believes it, but rissa’s apologies are reserved for one person and one alone tonight.
so there she stands for what must be an eon, more statue than woman. even after the ton spill out the doors, performance over, she does not dare move an inch. only when the duke makes his appearance does the second spell break its hold, limbs no longer stiff in place. rissa has time to ponder what sort of portrait she paints to him off stage in her current state, beneath real stars and clouds.
all decency and formality is once again abandoned (another sin to add to her many of a lifetime) when she does not curtsy or greet him by title. instead she turns to face him as she says, “i can explain why i wasn’t able to greet you after your performance. it was a misunderstanding.”
perfection, aloysius has come to learn, is an ill-made phantasm. his mother searched for it within him, amidst the ruins left behind by a father who had lost himself to that very search: and so all that he is, and all that he knows, are ghosts of histories he can never now learn. he will never truly know, not really, as his mother did not and does not, what it was that rendered his father lost to the world in which he used to waste so much time; but aloysius finds himself becoming, more and more, that very same man: dead to the world’s tumult, living alone, perhaps resigned, though perhaps even happy at knowing his place, the world telling him this, yet no more. the world telling him this, yet no less. aloysius had invited her for the simple reason that it felt right to do so: to have her watch this horrid excuse of an exculpatory performance, fingers treading on ivory, treading on years of lessons and corrections and the unbearable weight of a mother’s expectations, treading on too many notes and yet still not enough. still not enough. he looks up, once, and sees only shadow, does not see shadow on shadow but only absence of a shadow; realises: the box is empty. realises: she isn’t here. realises: it is all for nothing. and yet, still, fingers tread on ivory, and the performance plays on. it plays on even after the music ends, when he takes a bow in front of people who should matter but don’t, having been left by the only person who did. it plays on even when the crowd sifts out of the opera house like water released from a dam. it plays on even as he stands before her, even when he had hoped that it would stop playing as he stands before her. ❛ a misunderstanding, ❜ he echoes, the words brittle and ashen in his mouth, leaving only bitterness. yet he swallows; his mouth moving in motions that resemble the formation of words, but he does not feel himself, is not himself: is, instead, the duke of oxford, making polite conversation. ❛ i see, miss toussaint, ❜ he says, not really seeing. ❛ do tell: what kind of misunderstanding was it? ❜ he asks. he looks at her, surveys the features of her face, tells himself: this, yet no more. ❛ nothing too concerning, i should hope? ❜
not often can she be off on her own to explore sights outside of cholmondeley estates or ever so beloved hyde park. promenades do not bore her, never would she be caught saying as much, neither does her frequently visited bookshop ( its owner could perhaps say her presence bores him, she's not quite sure yet where they stand ). novelty, however, is always a welcomed taste on a palette accustomed to a routine held too close to her chest. nothing bad bound to appear out of patterns known like the back of her palm. there is irony to be found in her novel destination to be one filled with trinkets and such of the past. there is also no other place that seem so fitting for the young countess. stories raining down aplenty from every nooks and crannies stacked with much curious antiques. the distinctive calm voice is surprisingly enough to catch her attention in the midst of rampant fantasies about each object's origins. ❛ your grace, should i understand you were concealing this small oasis from me ? ❜ she would never feel entitled to his discoveries, timid smile portraying such a feeling in the greeting. ❛ i've only come as barely a pair of curious eyes, you shall not worry about my hand grabbing anything you've coveted. ❜ deposits back what she decides to be an unique hourglass, still debating on its previous owner's life path.
❛ conceal is too … how do i say this, malicious of a word, would you not say? ❜ he asks, tone nonetheless still teasing, a certain levity in the way he comports himself around the younger countess: a far cry, perhaps, from the way he held himself so guardedly with her in their first meeting — as he does, he thinks, with most everyone else — but still something that’s painted with the brush of a cordial performance. ❛ i was merely hoarding … all dragon-like, if you will, ❜ he continues, punctuating his sentence with the spirit of a wink: just bare enough to make one doubt he ever did it, for surely the duke of oxford doesn’t talk of dragons and wink at young countesses in an off-the-beaten-path storefront in abbey green now, does he? yet before she could make note of it, aloysius picks up what she so easily discarded: an hourglass, the intricacies of it far too delicate for a novice’s eyes like his to ever understand; but as an enjoyer of all things beautiful, he is bewitched all the same. gently, as if he is holding a small creature, liable to run away with an ill-placed touch, he holds it up to the light. ❛ come, ❜ he says, voice almost beckoning, ❛ you were thinking of something when you regarded this — pray, tell, what was it? ❜
There is a moment, when Nara goes thundering past him, when he feels the rush of air as their paths cross. He remembers in that moment a small piece of the joy he has lost, since riding became a part of war, and not a form of sport,
It is a moment where, despite knowing he has likely lost, he pushed the trotter with everything he has.
Even as the moment passes, and he faces the frustration of defeat, he still cannot quite shake the grin on his face, the adrenaline in his veins.
“You most certainly should be offended” William grumbled, not at all happy to have been beaten in the thing he had dedicated the past 10 years of his life to (unruly horse or not). “I certainly did not expect you to be in front of me!”
As Williams horse finally comes to a full stop he once against finds his feet on the ground "One day I will learn not to take bets. God, I think, tries to keep me a lesson each time I do. "
His eyes swing once more to his friend, back into teasing before either has even taken a breath, "surely only divine intervention could have led to your victory!"
❛ let’s be very clear, my friend, ❜ nara says, half-joking, but perhaps also half-serious, in that specific way that men of competitive natures could be, gloating to a defeated yet worthy — perhaps even worthier — opponent. ❛ my victory was only ever made possible by your lapse. ❜ he tries not to extend justifications, knowing full well it might be mistaken for condescension, but instead settles for poking fun at the other. ❛ like orpheus, turning back was your downfall, ❜ he says, ❛ and yet you were even worse off: orpheus, at the very least, turned back to see a fair lady — while you were not so blessed in that regard, seeing only dirt and sky. ❜ laughter yet again punctuates his words: soft, amiable. yet narayana, thoughtful, dismounting at last, lets slip his focus back to the trotter, patting the chestnut that had given him victory all the while. ❛ though i dare say the trotter could yet be tamed, ❜ he continues, ❛ particularly since you were able to master him even through a race — but i dare say, too, that the stableman is clearly not up for the task. ❜ he says nothing more, but looks towards the army man, leaving the rest in careful implication, not even knowing himself what the right course of action ought to be. in the end, he shrugs, decided to put the matter to rest, should the other not find it worthy of discussion. ❛ in any case, shall we get going to white’s? ❜ he might as well enjoy his spoils, after all.
A BOY BRINGS AYDIN A CHAIR and he pretends the boy doesn't even exist, a small head bow of acknowledgement to his friend before taking a seat beside him. if there's one thing that gets aydin's blood pumping, it's the thrill of the cards—especially making bets with money that isn't his. his eyes flit over aloysius' hand thoughtfully, trying to treat it as if it were his own. but in the end, he's never one to back down from a challenge. " hit, " aydin says, chin raising slightly.
❛ you play it safe, ❜ aloysius says, studying his cards, the words critical but the tone in which he delivers them almost thoughtful, as if maybe his friend had the right of it all along and now he’s had cause to doubt his own judgement. ❛ though it’s a proper shame how i’ll be missing out on your scintillating advice now that you’re on the table, ❜ he continues, moving about on his seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable when, really, he’s just fidgety. ❛ i’ll try my very best not to put it on your ledger if your call loses. ❜ — then he does as his friend says, and he hits.
london was wonderful at this time of year. with each day that passed, the streets filled with more and more fervour with each arrival of lords and ladies and defective diamonds ( of which she was sure they would never measure up to her and her personal delusions ). with all the hubbub, one simply never knew who they might run into.
it was simply pippa’s good fortunes that carry her to a window in which she spies aloysius ponsonby inspecting truffles and treats and what have you. therefore, as a woman who rarely refused the help of lady luck, of course she creeps into the store with all the stealth that a young lady in a daringly pink gown can muster and must now pretend to care about cheese lest she look like the crazed fangirl that she is. he doesn’t seem to notice the deception. or, if he does, he doesn’t say anything about it. either way: the duke of oxford is speaking to her. oh how she loves london in the season!
she could faint.
pippa gives a giggle, light-headed with attention. “a gift for who, your grace? not another lady, i hope! because although wonderfully fragrant,” her dimples smile betrays nothing. “i fear you may be in search of something prettier?”
he runs the risk of being obtuse: a welcome deal if, for nothing else, it grants him cover of plausible deniability — and not only him, aloysius thinks, but everyone around him is given the benefit of the doubt. ❛ is that so? ❜ he asks, tone of voice genuinely curious, leaning towards her as if that would make him understand her better, as if proximity is the only thing that distanced the two of them in this moment. ❛ i fear you may be right, ❜ he says, putting down the jar with a disappointed look on his face. ❛ such a gift might be so bland so as to be called thoughtless but — ❜ he hesitates. it would not do to ignore her question posed, especially when he purported to call himself a gentleman of good conduct, but it would be no stretch of the imagination to call it highly insinuative. or is it? the season always brings with it a requirement of having to read between the lines but — then again, maybe he’s just being full of it. or full of himself. either way, he ought to be more charitable. ❛ what does the lady recommend, then? ❜ he asks. ❛ especially to a gentleman who is, indeed, in search of — something prettier, as you say. ❜
"I would certainly expect no less from you, Officer Vogeti," he chuckles. He notes how much it seems like Narayana belongs here, much more astute than Cabell could hope to be, and he gets the feelings that he's happened upon the right person, blindly putting his trust in him. He nods along diligently, hanging on to his every word and inscribing the phrase you must let every poem breathe into his memory, so that he could follow these instructions at his next opportunity and maybe even become a little more like Narayana. "Accessible, you say?" he asks, taking the book from the other man and turning over the cover to inspect. "A sort of everyman, do you think? Someone who can speak from the perspective of the common thread between us all? I think that would be excellent reading for the young lady of our house," Cabell posits, glad he's found some help.
❛ the tides are ever-changing, ❜ he says, ❛ but i fail to see why i should be beholden to it: thus, my predictability. ❜ he could not help but laugh a little at the other’s attempt of an assessment at this … other poet. ❛ everyman might be a sort of misnomer, ❜ he says, easily passing off his good humour at the other’s expense as good humour through the other’s words. ❛ nevertheless, ❜ he says, ❛ it’s excellent reading all the same — ❜ or so narayana would hope — ❛ but you must forgive me: i had thought this enquiring young mind that you spoke of to be yours. ❜ he’s perhaps being a touch too charitable here, but honesty has never been his best policy. ❛ did the lady rosales not express to you her preferences? ❜
adelaide let out a giggle at his comment. “no, i do not believe that would be fit.” she said before nodding to give permission. “hm, what do you think of the name bernard?” she asked with a smile, “bernard the bunny.” she giggled out looking down at the creature, “or does that sound too childish?”
❛ i do not see what is so wrong with being childish, princess, ❜ he says, even if he does not believe it. ❛ besides, ❜ he adds, ❛ bernard is not too childish a name, i believe — and i dare say that the alliteration makes him sound more distinguished than anything else. ❜ he pets the creature, fingers threading through the soft fur. ❛ though perhaps bernard the bunny might suffer from being lonely … shall we go to the menagerie to get him a companion? ❜
"That is a very generous offer," Devika says, and if the invitation takes her aback in any way, she doesn't show it. In truth, after so many nights of eating alone, or with a withdrawn seven year old as her only company, there is something quietly reassuring about it. Even coming from a man she knows so little about. "And I am inclined to accept. But I think that I should first learn your name, if only so I can tell my brother that we are not, in fact, not the only South Indians in the ton." The small bevy of Singh's, Kumar's, Patel's would certainly have Dhruv believing otherwise, no matter how many paintings and traveling manifests she showed him. "Lady Krishnamurti. It's a pleasure to meet you."
❛ vogeti narayana, ❜ he speaks, only too eager to comply with the lady’s request of an introduction that he almost forgets himself. he walks back internally, reins himself in: ❛ commodore narayana vogeti, in these parts, ❜ he corrects himself. ❛ though i apologise, lady krishnamurthi, ❜ he says, ❛ if i offended you with my … zealousness. ❜ he gives the lady an apologetic smile. ❛ i reckon i am exactly as your brother would be, in this regard: too excited in receiving the news that i am not the only south indian here. ❜ his tone now slips into something almost nostalgic, reverent. ❛ it seems we are both a long way away from home. ❜
"You've made a rare accusation, Oxford" Sydney chuckles with amusement. "But I suppose you bring it out of me." Soon his fingers pinch empty air as the glass is nicked from his hands, and Sydney is impressed by the duke's speed. His freed hand rakes through his dark mop, any previous attempt of smoothing damned by the motion. "Shall I suggest that the hostess slip one of your compositions to this evening's musicians? The sooner your tolerance wears thin, the sooner we may empty the servers' trays and get out of here."
❛ oh, heavens, spare me, ❜ he says, in an exasperated tone of voice that somehow — in a distinct, cavalier way — seemed more fond than genuinely annoyed. ❛ could you even imagine? they’re going to play the music, and then sooner or later they’ll be asking oh, who’s the composer? who wrote it? and then they’ll crowd around and it’d be an entire — thing. ❜ the way he talks of this seemingly dreadful ordeal, the more it starts to look as if he would genuinely welcome the attention: a peacock preening his feathers for an imagined, adoring public. ❛ i’d rather we poke fun at the would-be poet, ❜ he says. ❛ i reckon we can cut him down with the right words, said at the right time. ❜
closed starter @enheriter
In the beautiful Hyde Park, Mahira discovered a bit of peace and quiet away from her usual secret business. She enjoyed being alone in the park, with the sunlight shining through the trees and the only sounds being the birds singing in the distance. However, her peaceful moment was interrupted when she unexpectedly came across someone she knew—Narayana. Because of their business connections, they had to be discreet, but there he was, in broad daylight.
"It's nice to see you here. Do you like the weather?" she greeted him with a bright smile. Deep down, she often worried about what her family would think and what people would say if they found out about her secret dealings. Her life was full of hidden secrets—each one more difficult to handle than the last. But for now, she had to keep up appearances and act like she was just casually meeting a friend in the park.
he turns ‘round at the sound of a familiar voice — and the sight of the viscountess chakraborti’s face is enough to make him smile: strictly speaking a business associate, perhaps, but one whom he’s had plenty of dealings enough to consider somewhat more — not exactly a friend, not really, but someone whose company he well-enough appreciates, and that’s more than he could say for most people. ❛ lady chakraborti, ❜ he greets, bowing before her in a sweeping sort of gesture that conveys — or so he should hope — enough of his respect and appreciation. it would not do, after all, to alienate a business partner simply because he didn’t observe the proper form of address. ❛ it’s far better weather that we have here than could be found in either of the poles, ❜ he says frankly. ❛ though the southerly winds could stand to not be so southerly, ❜ he adds, almost musing out loud: he hasn’t really thought about it too much, but it’s something that struck him as he was reviewing his accounts earlier that morning — a matter that tangentially touches upon their business together. ❛ i believe some merchantmen refuse to leave port out of fears of encountering disagreeable weather. ❜
Erou, Maya Phillips
– IT ISN'T AS IF LUCY HASN'T RECEIVED GIFTS BEFORE, accustomed to being brought back treasures by certain clients that have grown fond of her over the years. but this is the first she's been given without being asked for something in return – other than her company. she can't help but wonder how much longer this will last. after all, they never do. she could tell you a few stories about that. " see, you can be clever, " she teases, nose crinkling slightly at the flattery. " the ladies of the ton will be in trouble if you are courting this season. "
there's a brief but discerning look in her eyes. she always withholds judgement, and today is no different. " well, if it's difficult, then you should not force it, " she dips her head slightly, meeting his gaze, " make your thoughts not your prisoners, they say. the words will come to you when you need them. but i shall miss them in the meantime. "
she reaches over to produce her latest sketches. they're adventurous, grand costuming meant for a production of a midsummer night's dream. " they are fairly rudimentary, " she disclaims. " but with a little work . . . "
her teasing remark almost brings out another chuckle from him — but then she continues, and narayana finds himself unable to withhold the grimace that splits his expression. it’s a dangerous thing, an unexpected thing: he had let his guard down towards her, and he feels splayed apart, as if she could dissect him. he tries to transform the grimace into something haughty and unkind, trying to invoke in his face the expression he often divines in his sailors when they talk of having a fun night in town whenever they dock at a new port. ❛ why go courting when i can choose instead to enjoy myself for as long as i wish? ❜ he asks, in a tone of voice he’s heard plenty enough but has had no opportunity to try on himself. ❛ i have you, ❜ nara says, shrugging. ❛ you, ❜ he repeats, and he comes nearer towards her: plucking the sketches out of her hands, but in such a way that he grabs them from behind her, so that his arms encompass her shoulders, his body flush with hers. ❛ you, ❜ he emphasises, ❛ who can talk to me about beauty and art and poetry — and can produce such charming little sketches such as these. ❜ he takes her hand in his, tracing the strokes of her drawing with her fingertips. ❛ you do yourself a disservice, calling it dull, ❜ he continues. ❛ you should have this put out at the modiste: a gorgeous new collection, with an absolutely singular theme. i’m sure it will bewitch everyone: the ladies in love with the dresses, the gentlemen in love with the ladies wearing the dresses. ❜
open ; location: abbey green
Etta typically delights in taking strolls about town when allowed. Of course she's chaperoned by some ladies maids, though they've been around the estate long enough to know her and trust her, and vice versa. She doesn't feel stifled or controlled when she's with people from her manor, as long as it's not her mother, so Etta relaxes a touch as she walks along Abbey Green, letting her eyes drift along the storefronts, wondering if she ought to let her whims take hold and give in to the window shopping in order to alleviate her restlessness. What her eye instead catches from a distance is the fluttering of something falling out of someone's pockets or purse, unbeknownst to the owner. "Wait! Excuse me, wait!" she calls, hoisting her skirts up with one hand and trying to hail them with the other as she starts to pick up into a run after them. She can hear her ladies maids calling after her not to be so careless, but she's entirely too focused on her new escapade as she scoops up the object from the ground and closes the distance with the unsuspecting target. "Just a moment, you've dropped this!" she tries one more time, hoping they'll finally hear her.
abbey green, as it always did, absorbed his attention for far longer than might be called sensible: everywhere is the triumph of sight and sound; hawkers calling out their wares, talking in hyperbole so exaggerated it is almost a wonder that — for example — disease still existed when mr. hardyngg’s miracle serum could allegedly cure any ailment known to man, including ( but perhaps most especially ) male pattern baldness. aloysius is fortunately not so afflicted, but came nearer nevertheless: a cure for all ailments, you say? asking as if he was a researcher, on the search for the panacea once sought by newton and kelley, and from this hawker could come the solution for everything. it had been, truth be told, a charming conversation — though it would be folly to even believe a tenth of all the seller’s claims — and he had come away feeling as if it was time well spent. he resolved to go home, pockets filled with the pamphlets proclaiming the benefits of this so-called miracle cure, when he heard the voice calling out to him, turning ‘round just as the young woman closed the distance between them. ❛ duchess kensington? ❜ he asks, voice conveying his disbelief. yet he doesn't waste his time asking why are you here? instead shaking his head, before greeting her with a smile. ❛ that copy is yours, ❜ he speaks, hands taking out the folded pieces from his pockets: almost overflowing, which was probably why the slip of paper had come away so easily. ❛ it pleases me to inform you that the cure for everything apparently rests undiscovered and underutilised in a stall in abbey green in our fair city of london. ❜ he adds.
open ; location: almon's books
Cabell has made his way to the bookstore after hearing his younger sister's offhand request for more poetry books around the house. He finds himself a little stumped, however, when he realizes he's forgotten to ask her the names of any authors or titles he could recognize as he scans the shelves. "Excuse me, might you have any insight on what an inquiring young mind would most gravitate towards?" he asks the nearest patron, keeping his voice polite and quiet. He is very much an enjoyer of fine arts, but that is unfortunately limited to simply enjoying and not yet retaining information on names of great works or which authors are worth their salt.
❛ as a man of the sea, ❜ narayana speaks, ❛ you must forgive me for recommending coleridge’s rime of the ancient mariner. ❜ deft fingers take out a copy of the said poem: so familiar is he with the layout of this place, knowledge gleaned from visits oft-made, that he barely even looks; hands pulling out the tome almost like reflex action, barely even thought about. ❛ some critics say it is obscure, ❜ the commodore says, in a tone of voice that makes it very clear what, exactly, he thinks of those critics, ❛ but it opens itself up to you very easily, if you just let it breathe — as you must for every poem. ❜ it’s clear that this is a topic he could talk endlessly about, but he stops himself: his hands pull out, in yet another gesture that makes him look as if he is picking by random, another tome. ❛ but if that doesn’t sound enticing, here’s a more — accessible poet who writes about his own sea voyages. ❜ and of course, he would know this, for he is that very poet he now recommends, his words published under a pseudonym.
