Thank you for sending me the Rita Corbin memorial piece---very generous of you to remember. To a degree, I see (Eric) Gill in Rita's work. I regret I didn't maintain any sort of relationship with her, but, then, I wouldn't have known how. John Stanley.
Regrets, regrets, how they pile up
dustily in the corner as I hobble
towards my final days. What am I
saying? I'm already in my final
days; it only remains to be seen
how many of them there still remain
to be counted.
I know I'm not an artist because I
don't work hard and constantly.
Usque ad mortem. Real artists do.
I've always been tired, and I
remain weary to the end.
I guess they don't pile up
"dustily;" they gather dust
after they've piled up.
Rita, Rita! I regret I did
not take the care to cultivate
Rita...Ham, wasn't that her
Maiden Name? I always felt I
was intruding, she was so
Requiescat in pace, sweet Rita.
Strike "sweet;" tough and
stalwart Rita, sitting at a
table hour on hour in the
White Horse at 3 AM, with
Marty, flat-out cold and out
from her in the mid-Fifties.
Once I tried impetuously to
rouse him, and Rita angrily
turned me away---for interfering.
Marty was her problem, not mine.
Not, indeed, that he was a
Problem to her---manifestly.
Till death did them part---then unite.