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Beginnings are a beautiful thing — beautiful and terrifying, marked by the wonder of the possible and the weight of the possible.
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“It is a general sense of the poetry of existence that overcomes me.
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In the first days of a bleak London December in 1827, a small group of mourners gathered on a hill in the fields just north of the city limits at Bunhill Fields, named for “bone hill,” longtime burial ground for the disgraceful dead.
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It is such delicate work, such devoted work, the work of contouring the personhoods of persons who have imprinted the world with nothing less than revolutions of the mind, yet have left only faint traces of themselves as persons, unselved first by the nature of their revolutionary ideas — vast, ab
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