The Waders, 2007
The Walker in the Night, 2008
The Watchers, 1945
The Watchful Poker Chip of H. Matisse, 1954
When first we meet George Garvey he is nothing at all. Later he'll wear a white poker chip monocle, with a blue eye painted on it by Matisse himself. Later, a golden bird cage might trill within George Garvey's false leg, and his good left hand might possibly be fashioned of shimmering copper and jade.
But at the beginning--gaze upon a terrifyingly ordinary man.
"Financial section, dear?"
The newspapers rattle in his evening apartment.
"Weatherman says 'rain tomorrow.'"
Way in the Middle of the Air, ?
We Are the Carpenters of an Invisible Cathedral (poem), 1990
We'll Always Have Paris, 2009
We'll Just Act Natural, 1948
Well, What Do You Have to Say for Yourself?, 2002
West of October, 1988
What If I Said: The Dinosaur's Not Dead, 1983
The Wheel, 2010
When the Bough Breaks, 2009
Where All is Emptiness There is Room to Move, 2002
Where Everything Ends, 2010
Where's Lefty?, 1991
Where's My Hat, What's My Hurry, 2003
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Who Owns What and Which and Why (essay), 1990
The Whole Town's Sleeping (из "Вина из одуванчиков"), ?
Wild Night in Galway (из "Зелёные тени, белый кит"), 1959
The Wilderness, 1952
"Oh, the Good Time has come at last -"
It was twilight, and Janice and Leonora packed steadily in their summer house, singing songs, eating little, and holding to each other when necessary. But they never glanced at the window where the night gathered deep and the stars came out bright and cold.
"Listen!" said Janice.
A sound like a steamboat down the river, but it was a rocket in the sky. And beyond that - banjos playing? No, only the summer-night crickets in this year 2003. Ten thousand sounds breathed through the town and the weather. Janice, head bent, listened. Long, long ago, 1849, this very street had breathed the voices of ventriloquists, preachers, fortunetellers, fools, scholars, gamblers, gathered at this selfsame Independence, Missouri. Waiting for the moist earth to bake and the great tidal grasses to come up heavy enough to hold the weight of their carts, their wagons, their indiscriminate destinies, and their dreams.
The Wind, 1943
The phone rang at five-thirty that evening. It was December, and long since dark as Thompson picked up the phone.
"Oh, it's you, Allin."
"Is your wife home, Herb?"
Herb Thompson held the receiver quietly. "What's up? You sound funny."
"I wanted you to come over tonight."
"We're having company."
"I wanted you to spend the night. When's your wife going away?"
"That's next week," said Thompson. "She'll be in Ohio for about nine days. Her mother's sick. I'll come over then."
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The Window (из "Вина из одуванчиков"), ?
The Wish, 1973
The Witch Door, 1995
It was a pounding on a door, a furious, frantic, insistent pounding, born of hysteria and fear and a great desire to be heard, to be freed, to be let loose, to escape. It was a wrenching at hidden paneling, it was a hollow knocking, a rapping, a testing, a clawing! It was a scratching at hollow boards, a ripping at bedded nails; it was a muffled closet shouting and demanding, far away, and a call to be noticed, followed by a silence.
The silence was the most empty and terrible of all. Robert and Martha Webb sat up in bed.
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With Smiles as Wide as Summer, 1961
A Woman Is a Fast-Moving Picnic, 1997
The Women, 1948
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The Wonderful Death of Dudley Stone, 1954
"Alive in New England, damn it."
"Died twenty years ago!"
"Pass the hat, I'll go myself and bring back his head!"
That's how the talk went that night. A stranger set it off with his mouthings about Dudley Stone dead. Alive! we cried. And shouldn't we know? Weren't we the last frail remnants of those who had burnt incense and read his books by the light of blazing intellectual votives in the twenties?
_The_ Dudley Stone. That magnificent stylist, that proudest of literary lions. Surely you recall the head-pounding, the cliff-jumping, the whistlings of doom that followed on his writing his publishers this note:
The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit, 1958
It was summer twilight in the city and out front of the quiet-clicking pool-hall three young Mexican-American men breathed the warm air and looked around at the world. Sometimes they talked and sometimes they said nothing at all, but watched the cars glide by like black panthers on the hot asphalt or saw trolleys loom up like thunderstorms, scatter lightning, and rumble away into silence.
"Hey," sighed Martinez, at last. He was the youngest, the most sweetly sad of the three. "It's a swell night, huh? Swell."