You would not believe, Barrie said, you would not believe how much blood is in a man. Keats was quite ready to believe it. He believed most things at this time. He had come, at the credulous age of thirteen, from the country, where men did not tell so many lies, or they were a different sort of lies, not fat distended fancies like soap bubbles that rise from a washer-man's wand and swell and swell the expanse of their shining hollow bodies till they burst and you are left with just a thin wet sour residue.
The Selhurst Triangle lacks the mystical and paranormal associations of its better known Bermudan relative.
Our sin / is the folly of Sappho, the grief / of Alexander.
