The Fashion of La Folie

By SUSAN KINSOLVING

 

1754

She insisted that a gazebo, grotto, and gate be added
to the Estate. Two obelisks were next. And soon, a sham
castle was built on adjoining land. Then she planned
a Greek temple for a statuesque Aphrodite and six
water-spouting nymphs. Plus, a pagoda! Her follies
were, as Lord Clark said, monuments to mood. But
she had so many! Her fortune fed her fantasies until
one stormy day, she was caught in a downpour. Under
the rubble-stone roof of her hidden hermitage for hours,
she waited, her peasant costume sopping, her doeskin
slippers soaked. The cracking sound was not thunder.
Mossy timbers crashed on her kerchiefed head. Found
dead, she was soon entombed in a mausoleum. In time,
vandals destroyed the weeping angels, Corinthian capitals,
and garlanded urns. Her resting place was a ruin, a final folly.

Susan Kinsolving has published the poetry collections The White Eyelash, Dailies & Rushes, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, Among Flowers,and the forthcoming My Glass Eye. As a librettist, she has had works performed with the Marin Symphony, Santa Rosa Symphony, Glimmerglass Opera, and The Baroque Choral Guild in New York, The Netherlands, Italy, and California.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 02 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

The Fashion of La Folie

Related Posts

Book cover of Fifty Mothers

Mother is a Kind of Holding: Jenny Qi interviews Preeti Vangani

PREETI VANGANI
With vignettes, I could plumb its narrative arc to become a force propelling the book forward. It also felt haunting yet warm that the mothers kept reappearing throughout the life of this grief. That repetition created a chorus of voices that angers and despairs, yet cradles the speaker.

May 2026 Poetry Feature: Arielle Hebert, from Bottom Feeders

ARIELLE HEBERT
Home again at the water’s edge, / palms dancing in salt breeze. / I take a too-deep breath / and the air prickles my lungs / like an unfiltered cigarette. / Only the tourists are swimming, / coughing through the algal bloom, / eyes bloodshot and skin burning.

Portrait of Daniel Tobin in front of low trees

The Grave Fox

DANIEL TOBIN
No kindred of an earth, it must stalk alone, / or scavenge what the visitants leave behind. // or bird’s eggs, rabbits, the odd neighborhood / cat wandered over from some nearby home. / Its tail affects the lilt of a semaphore; its pelt // a finish of rust in sunlight.