Moliere's hair. By John von Daler

                       This blog has never been the best of places to find facts.

Through a glass. By John von Daler

                  You pick up the little glass ball with its solid black base and shake it to see the miniature tableau.

The man who changed clothes. By John von Daler

                       Well, well. You have to keep up with the times! said Turner to himself. He looked in the closet. Deep it was. And broad. Turner threw nothing away. But he did push the old things into the back. Let the new take over! he thought. Fresh air for the mind!

At #Rembrandt's. By John von Daler

Missing Persons. By John von Daler

                         Sometimes he would awaken from a dream and he would flow back into life like a murky little tributary spilling dredged muck into the clear main stream.

Bottled in. By John von Daler

               The building could have been a fortress, but instead its solidity had been chosen to house all kinds of culture, learning and pomp.

Caesura. By John von Daler

                         Once upon a time there was a proud little man. He owned a little store for rests: you know, the kind musicians use when there are no more notes in their music and they have to sit quietly with their instruments in their laps.

Coins at the Counter. By John von Daler

               When the dignified old woman entered the supermarket there almost always was whispering.

                She was once a great beauty! they said. They say she slept with the Czar!

A Closing Door. By John von Daler

                           I am not good at noticing the closing of a door, the silent wave of a hand, or any quiet disappearances that transpire unwarned. So I did not notice their unheralded passing.

Allé. By John von Daler

                          The usual metaphors will never do: the Allé is no artery; it has no connection to any heart.

The Battle Axe. By John von Daler

                    A damned hippie, that is what they had called Ove when he unveiled his sculpture. Now please do not misunderstand me. This is not the way I use words myself. Sometimes words can generate less meaning than a blank space.

An Open Book. By John von Daler

                You can never tell, she thought. Which one is it today?

                Kate watched her husband roll out of bed and shuffle out to the bathroom; his white pyjamas hardly looked as if he had slept in them. He never really changed positions in bed, but only lay on his back, his face pointed at the ceiling.

Counterpoint. By John von Daler

                          "Small talk!" he snarled. "Just damn American small talk!"

                "You could at least have asked her what her name was!" said Ann, slapping both hands on the steering wheel. "In this country people are interested in each other!"