So that's his first year.
The second year, 1947, he tries to get on top of the materials
by writing a poem to Jonathan Swift, in a satirical tone.
I'll read just a little of it, trying to get.
To you, I address myself, dear Dean,
asking for your good advice.
Since we meet infrequently, I won't close myself in glory.
You can hear the da-da-da of it.
I see a greenish ocean break against a rocky shore.
The long white fingers of the surf
set off the emerald island handsomely.
A stone of dark violet shimmers over Ireland's peateries.
In houses under hooting owls, barley sputters in the stew,
silver braid, a glint of wig, a goose quill pen drawing maps.
Not in this way, the people think, for instruction
and for art.
I followed it, sign after sign, and found the shortcuts useful.
I visited the Brobdingnagians.
I skirted the Laputa Isles.
I also met the Yahoo tribe living
in their slavish fear, a cursed brood of informers
who adore their excrement.
My life broke into [INAUDIBLE],, how he became Gulliver.
1947.