![]() ![]() ![]() “Slouching Towards Bethlehem” is also the title of one piece in the book, and that piece, which derived from some time spent in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, was for me both the most imperative of all these pieces to write and the only one that made me despondent after it was printed. The widening gyre, the falcon which does not hear the falconer, the gaze blank and pitiless as the sun those have been my points of reference, the only images against which much of what I was seeing and hearing and thinking seemed to make any pattern. This book is called Slouching Towards Bethlehem because for several years now certain lines from the Yeats poem which appears two pages back have reverberated in my inner ear as if they were surgically implanted there. ![]()
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