Nonfiction | May 10, 2012
Interstate 64 from Richmond, Virginia, to Newport News tunnels through thick and silent stands of pitch pines. Occasionally there are breaks in the trees, and the traveler glimpses a farmhouse, peanut fields or a swampy depression in the landscape where cypress knees swim in brackish lagoons. But mostly it’s just pine trees and pine trees. They crowd the interstate and block the view on both sides of the highway. At night—when I do most of my driving—the moonlight pools on the pavement. Stars appear in the narrow cut of sky above.
This essay is not currently available online.
If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.
Want to read more?Subscribe Today
SEE THE ISSUE
Sep 29 2020
On Hearing/On Listening
I play the tenor sax, and at sixty-five, I’m usually the youngest in this band. We play the oldest of old standards—very little from after the War, plus novelty tunes,
Sep 28 2020
In Noise, Feeling
I sat in a chair, the legs of my jeans pulled up to my knees, as a neurologist poked my leg with a pin. “Can you feel that?” he asked
Jun 19 2020
Exile in the Desert with Sarmi Moussa
In the end, it is the reality of personal relationship that saves everything. —Thomas Merton It was past midnight, and the bench I sat on in the small mud-brick airport