“I wish this spring a counterpoint to shudder through my memories of the sun,” said Richard Burton as the century closed. “I wish hymns to the twilight yielding unbroken stars.” Richard Burton stands in the ballroom of the Gilded Lion. The face of the planet wheels through December. Like a reckless alchemist, he sees night’s voice pointing north. He puts some thought and reason into seven sudden sharp golden notes that jar the hard shadows, a choral storm between nothingness and clusters of meteor petals, the beryl voice of a Christmas concert.
A Richard Burton At The End Of The Twentieth Century
