2019-12-13 05:13:42|103期老版跑狗玄机图 来源:时尚服装网


  Mary Oliver, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet whose work, with its plain language and minute attention to the natural world, drew a wide following while dividing critics, died on Thursday at her home in Hobe Sound, Fla. She was 83.

  Her literary executor, Bill Reichblum, confirmed the death. Ms. Oliver had been treated for lymphoma, which was first diagnosed in 2015.

  A prolific writer with more than 20 volumes of verse to her credit, Ms. Oliver received a Pulitzer Prize in 1984 for her collection “American Primitive,” published by Little, Brown & Company. She won a National Book Award in 1992 for “New and Selected Poems,” published by Beacon Press.

  Ms. Oliver, whose work appeared often in The New Yorker and other magazines, was a phenomenon: a poet whose work sold strongly. Her books frequently appeared on the best-seller list of the Poetry Foundation, which uses data from Nielsen BookScan, a service that tracks book sales, putting her on a par with Billy Collins, the former poet laureate of the United States, as one of the best-selling poets in the country.

  Her poems, which are built of unadorned language and accessible imagery, have a pedagogical, almost homiletic quality. It was this, combined with their relative brevity, that seemed to endear her work to a broad public, including clerics, who quoted it in their sermons; poetry therapists, who found its uplifting sensibility well suited to their work; composers, like Ronald Perera and Augusta Read Thomas, who set it to music; and celebrities like Laura Bush and Maria Shriver.

  All this, combined with the throngs that turned out for her public readings, conspired to give Ms. Oliver, fairly late in life, the aura of a reluctant, bookish rock star.

  Throughout her work, Ms. Oliver was occupied with intimate observations of flora and fauna, as many of her titles — “Mushrooms,” “Egrets,” “The Swan,” “The Rabbit,” “The Waterfall” — attest. Read on one level, these poems are sensualist still lifes: Often set in and around the woods, marshes and tide pools of Provincetown, Mass., where she lived for more than 40 years, they offer impeccable descriptions of the land and its nonhuman tenants in a spare, formally conservative, conversational style.

  In “Spring,” here in its entirety, she wrote:

  I lift my face to the pale flowers

  of the rain. They’re soft as linen,

  clean as holy water. Meanwhile

  my dog runs off, noses down packed leaves

  into damp, mysterious tunnels.

  He says the smells are rising now

  stiff and lively; he says the beasts

  are waking up now full of oil,

  sleep sweat, tag-ends of dreams. The rain

  rubs its shining hands all over me.

  My dog returns and barks fiercely, he says

  each secret body is the richest advisor ,

  deep in the black earth such fuming

  nuggets of joy!

  For her abiding communion with nature, Ms. Oliver was often compared to Walt Whitman and Robert Frost. For her quiet, measured observations, and for her fiercely private personal mien (she gave many readings but few interviews, saying she wanted her work to speak for itself), she was likened to Emily Dickinson.

  Ms. Oliver often described her vocation as the observation of life, and it is clear from her texts that she considered the vocation a quasi-religious one. Her poems — those about nature as well as those on other subjects — are suffused with a pulsating, almost mystical spirituality, as in the work of the American Transcendentalists or English poets like William Blake and Gerard Manley Hopkins.

  Readers were also drawn to Ms. Oliver’s poems by their quality of confiding intimacy; to read one is to accompany her on one of her many walks through the woods or by the shore. Poems often came to her on these walks, and she prepared for this eventuality by secreting pencils in the woods near her home .

  Throughout Ms. Oliver’s career, critical reception of her work was mixed. Some reviewers were put off by the surface simplicity of her poems and, in later years, by her populist reach. Reviewing her first collection, “No Voyage,” in The New York Times Book Review in 1965, James Dickey wrote, “She is good, but predictably good,” adding:

  “She never seems quite to be in her poems, as adroit as some of them are, but is always outside them, putting them together from the available literary elements.”

  Mary Oliver was born on Sept. 10, 1935, in Cleveland to Edward and Helen (Vlasak) Oliver, and grew up in Maple Heights, Ohio, a suburb of Cleveland. Her father was a teacher and her mother a secretary at an elementary school.

  In one of her rare interviews, with Ms. Shriver in O: The Oprah Magazine in 2011, Ms. Oliver spoke of having been sexually abused as a child, though she did not elaborate.

  “I had a very dysfunctional family, and a very hard childhood,” she told Ms. Shriver. “So I made a world out of words. And it was my salvation.”

  Leaving home as a teenager — she would study briefly at Ohio State University and Vassar College but took no degree — Ms. Oliver spontaneously drove to Steepletop, Edna St. Vincent Millay’s former home in Austerlitz, N.Y., near the Massachusetts border. Ms. Oliver lived at Steepletop for the next half-dozen years, helping Millay’s sister Norma organize her papers.

  In the late 1950s, on a return visit to Steepletop, Ms. Oliver met Molly Malone Cook , a photographer, who became her life partner and literary agent. Ms. Cook died in 2005. No immediate family members survive.

  Ms. Oliver taught at Bennington College and elsewhere. Her other poetry collections include “The River Styx, Ohio” (1972), “House of Light” (1990), “The Leaf and the Cloud” (2000), “Evidence” (2009), “Blue Horses” (2014) and “Felicity” (2015).

  Her prose books include two about the craft of poetry, “Rules for the Dance” (1998) and “A Poetry Handbook” (1994), and “Long Life: Essays and Other Writings” (2004).

  Given its seeming contradiction — shallow and profound, uplifting and elegiac — Ms. Oliver’s verse is perhaps best read as poetic portmanteau, one that binds up both the primal joy and the primal melancholy of being alive.

  For her, each had at its core a similar wild ecstasy. In one of her best-known poems, “When Death Comes,” she wrote:

  When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

  I was a bride married to amazement.

  I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

  When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

  if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

  I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

  or full of argument.

  I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.



  103期老版跑狗玄机图“【不】【清】【楚】。” 【冷】【默】【涵】【心】【知】【她】【说】【的】【是】【他】【与】【冷】【离】【轩】【之】【间】【的】【关】【系】,【他】【缓】【了】【两】【秒】,【淡】【声】【道】。 “【喔】,【那】【行】【吧】。”【相】【笙】【漫】【不】【经】【心】【的】【说】,【这】【未】【知】【的】【事】【儿】【确】【实】【很】【难】【找】【到】【答】【案】。 【车】【架】【离】【开】【集】【市】,【路】【上】【的】【行】【人】【也】【越】【发】【的】【少】。 【相】【笙】【打】【了】【个】【哈】【欠】,“【武】【王】【的】【人】【应】【该】【差】【不】【多】【到】【了】【吧】。” 【说】【完】,【她】【就】【拉】【过】【他】【的】【胳】【膊】,【把】【玩】【那】【骨】【节】【分】

  【御】【风】【要】【求】【这】【些】【人】【像】【忠】【于】【自】【己】【一】【样】【忠】【于】【菲】【儿】,【只】【要】【是】【菲】【儿】【发】【出】【的】【命】【令】【都】【要】【义】【无】【反】【顾】【的】【去】【执】【行】,【所】【以】【菲】【儿】【会】【用】【他】【们】【来】【打】【探】【消】【息】,【他】【不】【像】【一】【般】【的】【深】【闺】【妇】【人】【那】【样】,【一】【直】【以】【来】【他】【足】【不】【出】【户】,【就】【能】【够】【知】【道】【外】【面】【的】【事】。 【十】【几】【天】【过】【去】【了】,【明】【城】【传】【回】【来】【御】【风】【战】【胜】【的】【消】【息】,【御】【风】【带】【去】【的】【精】【兵】【把】【敌】【军】【打】【了】【个】【落】【花】【流】【水】。 【敌】【人】【已】【经】【退】【兵】【了】,

  【戈】【音】【整】【个】【紧】【绷】【着】【的】【状】【态】【也】【逐】【渐】【放】【松】【下】【来】,【她】【正】【准】【备】【躺】【下】【继】【续】【眯】【会】。 【却】【冷】【不】【伶】【仃】【发】【现】,【房】【间】【的】【门】【不】【知】【道】【什】【么】【时】【候】【被】【打】【开】【了】。 【甚】【至】【有】【道】【修】【长】【的】【身】【影】,【斜】【斜】【地】【靠】【在】【墙】【壁】【上】,【也】【不】【知】【道】【在】【这】【里】【站】【了】【多】【久】。 【戈】【音】【差】【点】【就】【尖】【叫】【起】【来】,【她】【伸】【手】【捂】【住】【了】【嘴】【唇】,【看】【样】【子】【被】【吓】【得】【不】【轻】。   【温】【斯】【年】【微】【蹙】【起】【眉】,【冷】【清】【的】【表】【情】【似】

  【世】【界】【级】【的】【机】【器】【人】【展】,【技】【术】【前】【沿】【到】【你】【想】【不】【到】,【未】【来】【的】【机】【器】【人】【也】【许】【就】【像】【行】【走】【的】【路】【人】【一】【样】【普】【通】,【比】【比】【皆】【是】,【不】【论】【外】【表】,【行】【为】【模】【式】【也】【许】【都】【能】【让】【你】【认】【不】【出】【真】【假】,【但】【他】【们】【却】【能】【解】【决】【很】【多】【生】【活】【问】【题】,【社】【会】【问】【题】。 【这】【次】【竞】【赛】【胜】【出】【的】【机】【器】【人】,【是】【个】【医】【疗】【机】【器】【人】,【它】【可】【以】【强】【大】【到】【主】【导】【一】【场】【大】【型】【手】【术】,【而】【不】【需】【要】【任】【何】【帮】【手】,【人】【面】【对】【着】【精】【力】、【体】

  【次】【日】【下】【午】【六】【点】【天】【色】【还】【大】【亮】,【蔡】【科】【长】【准】【时】【来】【到】【东】【北】【角】【宫】【北】【大】【街】【的】【娘】【娘】【宫】【门】【前】。【广】【场】【上】【一】【片】【繁】【华】,【卖】【工】【艺】【品】,【卖】【小】【吃】【的】【商】【贩】【一】【个】【接】【着】【一】【个】,【排】【起】【了】【长】【蛇】【阵】。 【蔡】【科】【长】【又】【站】【在】【宫】【门】【前】,【抬】【头】【看】【着】【高】【高】【挂】【着】【彩】【旗】【的】【幡】【杆】,【也】【知】【道】【这】【是】【出】【海】【船】【员】【们】【最】【想】【见】【到】【的】【旗】【杆】。【他】【们】【望】【见】【了】【杆】【子】【上】【飘】【扬】【的】【彩】【旗】,【就】【觉】【得】【从】【风】【浪】【汹】【涌】【的】【大】【海】【里】【驶】103期老版跑狗玄机图【西】【苗】【之】【外】 【异】【度】【魔】【君】【阎】【魔】【旱】【魃】【被】【异】【度】【女】**【华】【颜】【有】【道】【气】【得】【有】【外】【出】【找】【人】【打】【架】【泄】【愤】【去】【了】,【至】【于】【是】【谁】【这】【么】【倒】【霉】【恰】【好】【碰】【上】【这】【名】【吃】【了】【一】【肚】【子】【气】【的】【凶】【神】,【那】【就】【只】【能】【说】【明】【他】【运】【气】【太】【好】。 【本】【来】,【阎】【魔】【旱】【魃】【只】【是】【单】【纯】【的】【想】【杀】【几】【个】【人】【泄】【愤】【而】【已】,【却】【为】【料】【到】,【正】【好】【碰】【上】【了】【谈】【无】【欲】,【接】【着】【慕】【少】【艾】【又】【特】【意】【临】【时】【改】【道】。 【仇】【人】【见】【面】【分】【外】【眼】【红】,【谁】

  【扳】【指】【戴】【了】【几】【十】【年】,【还】【是】【傅】【奶】【奶】【在】【的】【时】【候】,【亲】【自】【给】【傅】【爷】【爷】【戴】【上】【去】【的】。 【想】【取】【下】【来】,【哪】【那】【么】【容】【易】。 【费】【劲】【半】【天】【拽】【不】【下】【来】,【傅】【爷】【爷】【有】【些】【着】【急】,【脸】【都】【涨】【红】【了】。【他】【咬】【紧】【后】【槽】【牙】,【边】【使】【劲】【儿】【边】【说】:“【姑】【娘】,【你】【先】【别】【急】,【很】【快】【就】【能】【取】【下】【来】……” 【见】【傅】【爷】【爷】【完】【全】【把】【她】【当】【做】【第】【一】【次】【见】【面】【的】【人】,【乔】【舒】【再】【也】【绷】【不】【住】,【眼】【泪】【无】【声】【的】【坠】【落】【脸】【庞】


  【不】【过】【王】【晨】【比】【较】【关】【心】【的】【是】【老】【毛】【子】【打】【的】【第】【一】【阶】【段】【任】【务】【已】【经】【来】【到】【了】【最】【后】【阶】【段】,【没】【错】【老】【毛】【子】【也】【对】【叛】【军】【发】【起】【了】【总】【攻】,【和】【种】【花】【家】【战】【区】【打】【的】【步】【步】【为】【营】【不】【同】,【老】【毛】【子】【开】【战】【的】【原】【因】【简】【单】【明】【了】。 【事】【情】【也】【很】【扯】【淡】,【自】【从】【酒】【厂】【被】【占】【领】【后】【黑】【色】【之】【手】【的】【老】【大】【马】【尔】【夫】【那】【是】【睡】【觉】【都】【不】【安】【稳】,【不】【过】【好】【在】【酒】【厂】【在】【手】【的】【时】【候】【生】【产】【的】【伏】【特】【加】【还】【算】【不】【少】,【供】【应】【自】【己】【招】

  【联】【席】【会】【议】【将】【目】【光】【对】【准】【了】【南】【海】,【既】【是】【赵】【然】【很】【早】【前】【就】【定】【好】【的】【规】【划】,【也】【是】【海】【外】【垦】【殖】【公】【司】【的】【需】【要】。【海】【外】【垦】【殖】【公】【司】【的】【大】【部】【分】【理】【事】,【实】【际】【上】【就】【是】【联】【席】【会】【议】【成】【员】,【公】【司】【的】【需】【要】【也】【就】【当】【仁】【不】【让】【的】【成】【为】【了】【联】【席】【会】【议】【的】【需】【要】。 【公】【司】【要】【想】【在】【南】【海】【也】【获】【得】【如】【同】【东】【海】【类】【似】【的】【收】【益】,【可】【能】【性】【不】【大】,【除】【非】【南】【海】【也】【冒】【出】【一】【个】【梧】【桐】【道】【人】,【但】【目】【前】【来】【看】,【这】【样】