Word: hairshirt
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Dates: during 1974-1974
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...author compares her life with that of an anchorite hermit. In fact, she is anything but a hairshirt recluse. She smokes cigarettes. She drives a car. Like nature, she is sometimes guilty of repetition and a certain atrocious lushness:"Silver trees cut into the black sky like a photographer's negative" and "clouds slide by like a tablecloth whipped off a table." But sooner or later, a pilgrim who refuses to believe in progress, she cuts back to the bone. To an age hooked on novelty, variety and pluralism, her message is as clear as William Blake...