"Call me Ishmael" was the first thing I thought of, TB. After all, what could be more evocative than:

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.

Evocative Tolkien:

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats--the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill--The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it--and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the lefthand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river."

I want a hobbit hole. Or a Rivendell condo—I'm flexible like that.

am @ the airport. got up @ 515. but we won trivia again last night! this time with the girl, my friend b, and a random stranger. friend g bailed, booooo. now for week o work hell...eep.

Hee, Calli, I think I'm for a hobbit hole myself. Though I wouldn't mind a li'l cottage at the edge of Fangorn overlooking the plains of Rohan.

Yes, Sox. Profile addy is good.

Ooooh. That Twain is perfect.

And Ginger, that was the passage my mind went to immediately on forming the question. Brain twins activate!

The Tolkien is keen (see what I did there?) WindSparrow. Thanks so much!

am @ airport too early. up @ 515. ick! won trivia again last night, though! with the girl, friend b, and a random stranger. friend g bailed. now for work hell. have to be awake and smart and knowledgeable. um, oops?

am @ airport too early. up @ 515. ick! won trivia again last night, though! with the girl, friend b, and a random stranger. friend g bailed. now for work hell. have to be awake and smart and knowledgeable. um, oops?

Someone nudge meara, she's stuck!

You're welcome, bonny. How do you feel about:

Ars Poetica

A poem should be palpable and mute

As a globed fruit

Dumb

As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone

Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

A poem should be wordless

As the flight of birds

A poem should be motionless in time

As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon releases

Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,

Memory by memory the mind -

A poem should be motionless in time

As the moon climbs

A poem should be equal to:

Not true

For all the history of grief

An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love

The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

A poem should not mean

But be

-- Archibald MacLeish

Maybe it's just me, but somehow this poem vividly evokes not only the disparate images it projects but also the vital importance of good, clear writing suited to its purpose. Of course, it may be less than helpful for your purposes. I don't care, any excuse to quote it is a good one.