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The Sound of Poetry
My earliest memories are of adults reciting poetry in our apartment near Paris—my father, my aunts and uncles, and Marina Tsvetayeva. I would have been five or six, and I did not know that there were worlds beyond our family, the darkening dining room, the hot fragrant tea, and the waves of poetry that engulfed us.
Tsvetayeva had pale green eyes, her skin was swarthy, and her short hair was touched with silver. I liked her harshness—the brisk movements, the low, slightly raspy voice with the hard r’s of the well-born Muscovite.