driven mad by the general carnage and had to be committed to an asylum for the insane by her brother, the city's Deputy Commissioner of Police.
Sheikh Sin had quickly understood that the plan had gone awry.
Abandoning the dream of the jewel-boxes when he was but a few yards from its fulfilment, he climbed out of Hashim's window and made his escape during the appalling events described above. Reaching home before dawn, he woke his wife and confessed his failure. It would be necessary, he whispered, for him to vanish for a while. Her blind eyes never opened until he had gone.
The noise in the Hashim household had roused their servants and even managed to awaken the night- watchman, who had been fast asleep as usual on his charpoy3 by the street-gate. They alerted the police, and the Deputy Commissioner himself was informed. When he heard of Huma's death, the mournful officer opened and read the sealed letter which his niece had given him, and instantly led a large detachment of armed men into the light- repellent gullies of the most wretched and disreputable part of the city.
The tongue of a malicious cat-burglar named Huma's fellow-conspirator; the finger of an ambitious bank- robber pointed at the house in which he lay concealed; and although Sin managed to crawl through a hatch in the attic and attempt a roof-top escape, a bullet from the Deputy Commissioner's own rifle penetrated his stomach and brought him crashing messily to the ground at the feet of Huma's enraged uncle.
From the dead thief's pocket rolled a vial of tinted glass, cased in filigree silver.
3. Light Indian bedstead.
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ANNE CARSON / 2863
Th e recovery of the Prophet's hair was announced at once on All-India Radio. On e month later, the valley's holiest me n assembled at the Hazratbal mosque and formally authenticated the relic. It sits to this day in a closely guarded vault by the shores of the loveliest of lakes in the heart of the valley which was once closer than any other place on earth to Paradise.
But before our story can properly be concluded, it is necessary to record that when the four sons of the dead Sheikh awoke on the morning of his death, having unwittingly spent a few minutes under the same roof as the famous hair, they found that a miracle had occurred, that they were all sound of limb and strong of wind, as whole as they might have been if their father had not thought to smash their legs in the first hours of their lives. They were, all four of them, very properly furious, because the miracle had reduced their earning powers by 75 per cent, at the most conservative estimate; so they were ruined men.
Only the Sheikh's widow had some reason for feeling grateful, because although her husband was dead she had regained her sight, so that it was possible for her to spend her last days gazing once more upon the beauties of the valley of Kashmir.
1981
ANNE CARSON
b. 1950 Anne Carson was born in Toronto, Canada, and grew up in Ontario, and she received both her B.A. and her Ph.D. in classics from the University of Toronto. The recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, she has taught classics at McGill University and the University of Michigan, among other schools. Along with poetry, she has published books of criticism on classical literature; translations from Greek; and a novel-inverse, Autobiography of Red (1998).
In her poetry Carson braids together the ruminative texture of the essay, the narrative propulsion of the novel, the self-analysis of autobiography, and the lapidary compression of lyric. In 'The Glass Essay,' a long poem that reflects on the dislocations of identity through time, love, and madness, she vividly narrates the end of a love affair, a visit with a difficult mother, and the degeneration of a father with Alzheimer's in a nursing home. Into this semiautobiographical tale she weaves commentary on the writings of Charlotte and Emily Bronte, whose works function?like the classical texts she often incorporates into her poetry?as oblique and remote points of comparison for the poet's experience. Both personal and impersonal, Carson's poetry bridges the gap between private narrative and philosophical speculation, between self- excavation and literary-critical analysis. Tightly wound with crisp diction, studded with striking metaphors, etched with epigrams and ironies, her poems are lucid in feeling and intense in thought. They are as intellectually crystalline as they are emotionally volcanic.
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286 4 / ANNE CARSON From The Glass Essay Hero I can tell by the way my mother chewswhether she had a good night and is about to say a happy thing or not. her toast 5 Not. She puts her toastYou know you can down on the side pull the drapes in of her plate. that room, she begins. ioThis is a coded reference to one of our oldest arguments, from what I call Th e Rules Of Life series. My mother always closes her bedroom drapes tight before going to bednight. at I open mine as wide asI like to see everything, What's there to see? possible. I say. 15Moon. Air. Sunrise. All that light on your face in theI like to wake up. morning. Wakes you up. At this point the drapes argument has reached a delta and may advance along one of three channels. There is the Wha t You Need Is A Good Night's Sleep channel, 20 the Stubborn As Your Father channel and random channel. More toast? I interpose strongly, pushing back my chair. 25Those women! saysMother has chosen Women ? my mother with an random channel. exasperated rasp. Complaining about rape all theI see she is tapping one furiouslying beside the grape jam. time? finger on yesterday's newspaper 30Th e front page has a small feature about a rally for International Women's Day ? have you had a look at the Sears Summe r Catalogue? Nope. Why , it's acut way up disgrace! Those bathing suits? to here! (she points) No wonder! 35 You're saying wome n deserve to get raped because Sears bathing suit ads have high-cut legs? Ma, are you serious?
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THE GLASS ESSAY / 2865
Well someone has to be responsible. Wh y should wome n be responsible for male desire? My voice is high. Oh I see you're one of Them.
One of Whom? My voice is very high. Mother vaults it. An d whatever did you do with that little tank suit you had last year the green one? It looked so smart on you.
Th e frail fact drops on me from a great height
that my mother is afraid.
She will be eighty years old this summer.
