{"product_id":"the-after-party-isbn-9781101906231","title":"The After Party","description":"\"A truly moving book.\" —John Ashbery\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJana Prikryl’s \u003ci\u003eThe After Party\u003c\/i\u003e journeys across borders and eras, from cold war Central Europe to present-day New York City,\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003efrom ancient Rome to New World suburbs, constantly testing the lingua francas we negotiate to know ourselves. These poems disclose the tensions in our inherited identities and showcase Prikryl’s ambitious\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eexperimentation with style.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thirty Thousand Islands,” the second half of the collection,\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003epresents some forty linked poems that incorporate numerous voices. Rooted in one place that fragments into many places—the remote shores of Lake Huron in\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eCanada, a region with no natural resources aside from its beauty—these poems are an elegy that speaks beyond grief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePenetrating, vital, and visionary, \u003ci\u003eThe After Party\u003c\/i\u003e marks the arrival of an extraordinary new talent.\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Best Poetry Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Remarkable. . . . Unusually vivid. . . .  Brilliant and funny. . . . A sensory autobiography that examines tragic material with a friendly scrutiny. . . . Language in this enchanted book sometimes seems to have an independent intelligence.” —\u003cb\u003eDan Chiasson, \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Prikryl’s debut is a gratifying demonstration of (among other things) the warmth and wit of poetry’s formal architecture.” —\u003cb\u003eDavid Orr, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Delightful. . . . Marvelous. . . . The poems in \u003ci\u003eThe After Party\u003c\/i\u003e have a quality of attention, a presence of a probing intellect alert to the strangeness of our lives as well as our own estrangement from ourselves.” —\u003cb\u003eCharles Simic, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Potent and pleasing. . . . A poet’s debut elevates the everyday and nods to influences from the past. . . . Jana Prikryl’s readers will quickly discover such rueful humor is typical of her understated sensibility . . . . Prikryl is most fascinated by the unpredictable zigs and zags of an imagination in motion, and language’s laughable (but reliably amusing) incapacity to map that course precisely.” —\u003cb\u003eJoel Brouwer, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jana Prikryl’s first volume of poetry, \u003ci\u003eThe After Party\u003c\/i\u003e, announces a wholly original talent. The voice is labile--at once witty, wry, astringent, funny, wise and unfathomable. This collection is full of surprises. In her hands, form is an endlessly malleable thing. I felt pure exhilaration reading it.” —\u003cb\u003eNeel Mukherjee, \u003ci\u003eThe New Statesman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Canny, knowing. . . . Prikryl is not afraid of tearing up the rule book. . . . Her best poems are intimate, sprightly, and darkly insinuating.” —\u003cb\u003eWilliam Logan, \u003ci\u003eThe New Criterion\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The year’s most impressive debut.” —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eFlavorwire\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fastidious, vulnerable, and moving. . . . Time is almost an embodied character here, its collapsing and bad behavior pivotal to some of Prikryl’s most affecting personal narratives.” \u003cb\u003e—Declan Ryan, \u003ci\u003eThe Times Literary Supplement\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's unusual to come upon a body of work by a poet hitherto unknown to one and find it a complete, self-contained universe of its own, totally original and separate from current poetic modes. Jana Prikryl's is such a case. I am reminded of Wallace Stevens's title, \"A Completely New Set of Objects,\" except that her poetry doesn't really include objects, but is more like a private biosphere subject to its own climate conditions and laws of growth. Her subject is life as it is currently being lived, and the landscapes it traverses. They are like the ones we all know, yet transformed as though by a dream. \u003ci\u003eThe After Party\u003c\/i\u003e is a truly moving book.\" —\u003cb\u003eJohn Ashbery\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nimble, even acrobatic, cutting but never slashing, always clever but never merely so, Prikryl’s poems belong to the great line of wit; they make the intolerables of this life--our islanded existence, our mortality--bearable. And what a mind this poet has, self-skeptical but always curious, encompassing declarations and speculations from the winsome to the recondite. We can say to her, delightedly, what she says more sadly: \u003cb\u003e\"\u003c\/b\u003eI’d put \/ nothing past you.\u003cb\u003e”\u003c\/b\u003e —\u003cb\u003eStephen Burt\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jana Prikryl’s debut collection is, to borrow her phrase, ‘unswervingly superb,’ though it’s indicative of this playful, surprising, hyper-smart work that the poet applies it to a ‘caramel’ brunette’s ‘taste in shoes.’ Prikryl’s work is replete with the right, odd detail, and animated by a swift feverish grace. Her lines are beautifully turned, and as at ease with Latinate high irony as Anglo-Saxon idiom. Prikryl has the skill of being interesting, and has composed a book that is not just ‘susceptible to the consolations\/of analogy’--but is itself a consolation.” —\u003cb\u003eNick Laird\u003c\/b\u003eJana Prikryl’s poems have appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker, The London Review of Books, The Paris Review, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe New York Review of Books, \u003c\/i\u003ewhere she\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eis a senior editor. She lives in New York.\u003cp\u003eOntario Gothic\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e1. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe dwarf maple caught my attention\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein an ominous way, its purple,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eits deep purple leaves shredded gloves\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat gesture “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eamong floating albino basketballs of hydrangea\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eamong other things the people landscaped\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike fake lashes round the top of the eye \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat then all summer takes in clouds\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand anything else passing over, including\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eone has to assume\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe neutral look\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon a passenger’s face glancing down from a window seat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e2.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHalfway there he squeezed between the shoulders of the seats\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto join his wife and me in back. I need hardly tell you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhat a stretch it was, wedging my arm between the driver’s seat and door \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto steer with the tips of my fingers,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esidewalks in those parts just wide enough for a car. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhy he wanted me to take the wheel \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was too busy not getting us killed\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto unravel; there was the traffic, a thing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecoming at us with its mouth wide open, and in back\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe two of them\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhispered in their corner,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etaking up very little space,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eless than was right,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand then less and less, gasping at the joke he’d set in motion.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArgus, or Fear of Flying\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA seagull at home in this valley steps into air\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabove the river. I’d like to follow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit holding the wind to account while flinging\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eitself out into it. Remove in reading\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand being the music when you listen--\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enot that you moved back but forward into\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eremove--saw you off a wall patched with lichen,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003econsortium of air and electric currents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit’d be difficult to itemize \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eexpressing you across the river.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt deepens like a mind accruing images.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI keep the beat, the tune a repetition,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eindifferent its source or whether\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003erock and roll or country, junkier the more\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eimmense, as with all the airborne arts,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand you keep your distance, convexity, \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof feeling, and relations of the third person\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003evis-à-vis a situation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s crucial to no more than misplace\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eclaims on what might go down with the pilot’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eresourcefulness--it cannot look too\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecasual--faculties both stirring up\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand yielding to motion bestowing lift.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe statues of Hermes littering Europe\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith little fins at head and feet don’t conjure\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe fact articulated through my limbs\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen I read about Zeus flying him in\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon winged sandals to murder the diligent\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efreakish strangely beautiful giant \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etasked by the jealous wife with guarding\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe innocent mistress--you see there’s always\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edemand for aviation--in which the god’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecenter of gravity over his lofting\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efeet emerges as something palpable, \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eautonomous disc near the pelvis \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof an ally that’s never not mobile.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePillow \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow solitary \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand resolute you look in the morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA stoic in your cotton sleeve.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDo you dream of walking out\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003erain or shine\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea truffle balanced on your sternum\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand passing me on the sidewalk?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOr is that a smile \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause you interpret nothing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand statelessness is where you live?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow calmly you indulge my moods.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSee you tonight, by the sovereign chartreuse\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eceramics at the Met. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLet’s hear what you’d do differently.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTumbler\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was too much\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto hope for to \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehope we would know \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen too much was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etoo much to hope\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNew Life\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom the fields of a calendar, its snow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epacked firmly into squares, I farmed you.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFollowing some paperwork you shipped west\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand I flew home economy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn interval like summer passed before a van found my house\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand tilted you off the dolly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTucked behind hedges and twilight, with a screwdriver\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pried the lid and under\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epetals of bubble wrap \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyour eyes open, \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eblue as an infant’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand equally foreign.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat your English came back as fast\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas it did was more than anyone could’ve asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou soon made friends\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust as I’d predicted.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou sleep in the spare room--no closet or chair\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut a window onto something green and unconflicted.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfternoons were tennis, sandwiches,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand drills recalling the yellow bike, the seven stitches. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI know it tires you.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMustn’t overdo it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYour memory worked pretty well\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003econsidering the mirror time put to it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn thinking back you’ll try to invent\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe future: you see us growing ancient,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esay, twenty-nine, translated\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein dad’s shirts and ties.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s the past, when brother and sister\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewere all footsoles and eyes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etogether in a wood as steep as the Tyrol\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat looms up unannounced, always a surprise.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eUnrequited\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe’d have called to say the sill is overrun\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith moss, there’s moss on the light fixtures, moss\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon his prepositions, when he bends and unfastens\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehimself from bed, he finds moss on his clothes,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea soft green runway of fuzz in the most\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einteresting section of his underwear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI know what you need, the law’s wide dry hands\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etrying to bucket the truth: And nothing but\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe small transparent sphere that breaks and fills\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe moss’s thousand tiny throats. Let’s imagine\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor a minute he has the soil, is really in it--\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLevin moving through the rows with a scythe.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis feeling is metaphor so complete\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit’s the hum alone on loan from the hive.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA Package Tour\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s not untrue to say that Paní Barvíková was a great-grandmother\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor she and three others were great-grandmothers\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ealthough they were unknown to one another\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand to themselves as great-grandmothers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBefore those four, there were eight. Then sixteen,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand at thirty-two we could charter a bus (with room\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor their trunks) and tour the Loire, chateaux already then antique.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s a costume drama of uncertain date; be not too dogmatic\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein your visualization but do picture us\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elooking fabulous. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThese being the days a woman’s body’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003erespected absolutely in its tyrannical seasons\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe better to be exploited absolutely.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI called them by their unpronounceable names:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePaní Vejvodová, Paní Frgalová.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOld tapestries of politeness swung substantially between us. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven the legal rapes that bit them into keeping\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esecrets from themselves had hit them early enough at least\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto yield fat little dividends. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom time to time\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eone of them would touch my hair or take my arm, \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elaying a gentle claim.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI saw one whispering into hands cupped\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto a window; her words appear\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas subtitles in the making-of documentary.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven the wealthiest, most finely dressed, most widely read\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein Romance languages shrank beside the poise of the French,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand so plus ça change.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey were my mothers, all,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut I was their guide,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hoisted a furled umbrella.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI had my career, it’s important to me\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto do some work of significance \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor do my work conscientiously.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt night the Château de Chenonceau is lit with torches like a cake.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAristocrats in period dress play their forefathers\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein a hedge maze floodlit from below.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePuddles of rouge under the eyes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof also most of the men, perukes and heels impelling them to caper.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSome comic scenes when I mistake a few for great-grandmothers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou know we’ve grown close because now\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethere’s something close to rivalry between us. Quietly in clusters\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethey agree their lives meant something regardless,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eregardless of my arrival.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhy did you show us all these things?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat do you bring besides information? \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMeanwhile I’d begun to sense, although this sense\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas gradual and liable to withdrawing, \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat I didn’t depend on them to feel entire.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hated to leave them\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI couldn’t refrain from saying\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein their bad marriages.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd then I was here,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eremembering the ovals of their faces\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike blank money, \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas if this could win me some advantage,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas if it might incline you to be generous.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBenvenuto Tisi’s Vestal Virgin Claudia Quinta Pulling a Boat with the Statue of Cybele \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e[a painting at the Palazzo Barberini in Rome] \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA solid quarter\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof it is blotted burnt umber\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor the hull, a scripted curve, as if color\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebricked over and over\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecould send a sailboat blowing from the canvas as matter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSimilar:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshipping the goddess from a backwater\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen setting her up here.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd I’m the golden retriever.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEyeballed from behind, female with yellow hair\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003econtending with a hawser.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eManifestly unafraid to show my rear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sip antiquity from my spot on the Tiber!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDaylight buzzing like an amphitheater.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot everyone is born to be a master.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe did sketch Michael roosting with his sword\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon the grave of the Roman emperor\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein perspectival miniature, \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eecho of the statue in the fore.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMore on her later,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eall the eunuchs and bees you can muster.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf you had to name the gesture\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof the frontman with the beard\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand frock of a Church Father\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egaping at me from the future,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou could do worse than basta--hands perpendicular\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto the ground, each white palm a semaphore,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehead tilted halfway between concern\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand something he won’t declare. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTo all the girls Bernini loved before \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’d say, caveat emptor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe deathless ars \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elonga, vita brevis guys will have me clutch a carved\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etoy boat but this provincial follower \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof Raphael goes for the ocean liner.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eReality’s my kind of metaphor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe heavens circulate with the times on the far \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehorizon and I don’t have anywhere\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto be except this unambiguous shore.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTumbril \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou have to hope we\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esoon exhaust all hope because\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou sense one final hope\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand maybe the true one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecan be hoped for only \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eafter every hope has lost \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eits head.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303199133925,"sku":"NP9781101906231","price":15.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101906231.jpg?v=1767738022","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-after-party-isbn-9781101906231","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}