Reading
The Picture of Dorian Gray
by Oscar Wilde
A young man of beauty and grace
Tries to shield his good name from disgrace.
He looks like a saint
While he withers in paint,
But he still finds himself losing face.
Dracula
by Bram Stoker
A solicitor pays his respects
To a count whom no surface reflects,
And who moves to the UK
To follow his outré
Desire to suck on some necks.
Ulysses
by James Joyce
A lass who keeps raising her dress
Is awash with erotic distress.
’Spite her wandering womb,
Should she keep Leo Bloom?
Why yes, she says, yes she will, yes.
“A Modest Proposal”
by Jonathan Swift
A man caused a hullabaloo
By posting this practical view:
Economics call for
Irish babes of the poor
To be served to the rich as ragout.
Sherlock Holmes
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The world’s most proficient detective
Has deductive techniques most effective.
(Though his Watson stays close
With an opium dose
Lest Holmes hit him with an invective.)
In this column, Kristen Mulrooney writes letters to famous mothers from literature, TV, and film whom she finds herself relating to on a different level now that she’s a mom herself.
Dear Marmee,
I always hoped I would be just like you when I became a mother. I dreamed that one day, my most literary child would write a book based on our family and portray me as an extraordinary beacon of light, wisdom, and patience.
So far, it’s not looking great.
I’m trying my hardest, but I wake up tightly coiled and exasperated every morning before anyone has even started asking me to play Roblox with them. Like most writers, I consider myself a Jo, maybe not in terms of talent but at least in temperament. Under your guidance, Jo learned to be less reactive and more in control of her emotions, so I’m assigning you the role of my new mentor. Congratulations.
It was a gloomy morning, fifth century, and I was nursing a hangover that felt like I’d been worked over by a shillelagh with something to prove. I was just about to take a shot of holy water—hair of the God that blessed me—when he walked in.
I should have known he was trouble. The green suit, the matching hat, legs as long as a toadstool on a Sunday bender. He had a thick red beard and knew how to use it. A leprechaun. I’d seen his kind before.
“We’re closed,” I muttered.
“You Saint Patrick?” the small man said.
“That’s what the heathens call me.”
“People say you work miracles.”
“People say a lot of things,” I replied.
“Word on the street is you beseeched the Lord to provide food to hungry sailors traveling through a desolate land, when a herd of swine miraculously appeared,” the stranger said.
“Bunch of hogwash. Listen, pal, I got pagans to convert. What can I do for you?”
“The name’s O’Bready. Clover O’Bready. I got a wee job for you,” said the man, approaching my desk. “What do you know about snakes?”