Stephen Williams
Travels
Why make a long story of it? Blue eyes mean blood of Alexander, and all the horses descend from Bucephalus.
Heedless of infinity an angry cavalier produced a flaming sword.
The sea keeps doing its handstands, more persuasive than fury is the sea.
The king hereby proclaims that time shall be consecrated by measuring the growth of the king's hair. Measure it against what? say his assembled subjects. The length, coxa to tarsus, of a praying mantis. What if the praying mantis grows? the people asked. Do praying mantises grow? asked the king. Everything grows, said the fool—everything.
As a voice improvises an echo. Thinking forgets its name if it ever knew. That's when you know you're really thinking.
Water is turning into air. Mist is turning into light.
At the end of April the Governor’s uncle was sentenced to death and rolled in a carpet so the royal blood would not spill on the earth as the Governor’s uncle was dragged to death behind a horse.
Time loves itself. Time hates itself. The Buddha's been there for 25 centuries. He doesn't care if you stop to inspect his statue.
No one hopes for solitude in paradise.
Our most surprising finding in paradise was that angels have extremely long necks. Long and thin like pieces of string. Their heads bob like lily pads on their stems. In the thick glorious air. I saw them.
The king collects evergreens. When he hears tell of a fine fir, he sends his men out to find it. They secure it to a team of elephants, and carry it back and transplant it on the artificial slope that lies a bowshot from his window.
Once the king's astrologers foretold the citizens of a particular city would rise against him. So he built another city across the river, and ordered all those with even a hint of dissident connection move. Only the few above reproach could stay. This city is our city. We are the elect, and our god the elector. Generations later we have accumulated staggering wealth. We command a continent. Why then sorrow?
Light gathers at the horizon. Crowns it. Why shouldn't a tyrant wear a crown?
The Muses are everywhere. They speak lies as if they were true, but they also tell the truth.