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Notes Spinned Off of a Fragment on Memory from the Adventure Series: a Cut-up Prologue
… a land gleamed among the darker weed & the grim grey sea …
… a rock outcropping forming a surf yacht upon the coast of wales
—where the wind always whistled
& sand-hills stood between it and the sea
beating to windward on the horizon & rolling in along the links …
beating to windward on the horizon & rolling in along the links …
… foam, blowing sand, & nothing beyond but september, with a high wind …
… and heavy we came down upon the shores of a country very northern to behold & haunted by gulls …
… a continual piping at sundown in moorish sky, a gray sea, wind-ragged mist, and perennial arctic ice-fields
—and there, that ill-omened strait of whirlpools …
… some defaulting banker picked up by a spray, and great, grey waves, together by the wind …
… hard upon the shore in northern islands, the great deep, and running seaward …
… a little bare white roaring grave of mariners;
cliffs far beyond the northernmost low coast-line between two shallow bays;
dead bastion for the sand, a promontory whistling wind …
cliffs far beyond the northernmost low coast-line between two shallow bays;
dead bastion for the sand, a promontory whistling wind …
… a coach, rolling over & just beyond the tides …
… blood-and-thunder tale of sand-hill and sands …
… half-buried truncheon of wreck roared in the weeds haunted by gulls …
… the place told of nothing but outlandish voices & a cropped out chatter from an islet passed on …
… the voices died in the town in front, its streets full of edge, the sea-birds screamed, the sand links
—a hedge of elders huddled mariners and sea disaster …
… a ship of small dimensions but strikingly a land gleamed …