Novelist Emily Bronte (Wuthering Heights) was born on this day in 1818. She wrote this poem:
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest frost amid the boundless main.
As for Sully, he’d shed any number of things over the years, or they’d fallen away – God, awe, beauty, inspiration – but never his overweening, tedious self. It was as immense as ever, his self-preoccupation. It perched on his shoulder at the bar, importuning him. It wheedled and cajoled, craving attention. Demanding he attend to its needs. It accompanied him wherever he went, a beggar dogging his steps. How could one shake it? -- Chapter 22, The Misforgotten.