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The mystical mysteries of Ozick’s pen, she writes, types though

- so worried about being misinterpreted -

but what a mind, so wonderful.

The writer, her routine recounted, but she remains absent.

Ozick catches, delves deep into the biography,

Wharton in her greatness, not only the public persona,

the personal, what goes on in the heart of a writer,

their moment of greatness, Ozick catches.“

Justice (Again) to Edith Wharton.”

How interesting is biography,

the art of it,

not merely brushing off netted spider silk,

but in academic speak, a co-relation of the routine, the text, the heart.

Drowning, it drowns.

The lost daughter renewed the ache,

always so attractive the pursuit of life academic, scholarly, pure;

but it drenches, like black molasses,

lost, sticky, immovable in the writerly reality.

Looking always through the metaphoric eye,

ebbing away the commonplace.

It devours whole.

Wanting, always wanting, no courage to dive into the abyss.

Driven? Tranquil?

A storm rages, it is quelled, warring realities.

Vijeta Budhiraja is an independent scholar and writer. Her research on cinema is published in the journal Dialog. Her poetry has been published in the Alipore Post. She enjoys writing about cinema and culture.

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