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Dear Martin, Here you go. Best, Bill *************************** Schwitters in Ambleside You would expect the vestiges of chaos to accompany him to his alien grave, instead this sheepish town contents itself with making little headstones out of slate. Cramped, stubby, but free-standing: all this gray was some use, one way of shaping sense, relief for eyes from lifting to hills filled with life- lessness, the way at Honister you pass onto the scree slopes of some outer moon they had no image for back when he came to colonise the idea of his death. To settle where they couldn’t gauge his worth, to build the wall that sealed him off from fame, to tear himself off and stick his self down. -----Original Message----- From: Martin J. Walker <[log in to unmask]> To: William Herbert <[log in to unmask]>; [log in to unmask] <[log in to unmask]> Date: 19 February 2000 11:14 Subject: Re: Narrative etc. >Puh-lease, Bill, I've got no access to your books out here in the Midi - >could you mail that Wordsworthian sonnet? - I'm so much in agreement with >you otherwise. >Cheers, Martin > %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%