fiction
Voltairine de Cleyre, “The White Room” (1896)
It was an artist’s masterpiece. He had wrought it all with his own hands, after his idea, which grew as he wrought. It was not square nor long nor round, nor any regular shape, such as we are used to thinking of rooms; it was wider here and narrower there, and had strange turns and niches and carvings and arches; and in all these there were bits of statuary, or tiny fountains, or flowers, or curious sea things gathered from many shores, shells and corals and ocean feathers, picked up years apart. The light came from above as all light […]