To the Reader To the Reader Folly, error, sin, and penny-pinching Preoccupy our minds and belabor our bodies And we feed our amiable remorse Like beggars nourishing their vermin. Our sins are stubborn, our repentance weak — We demand generous payment for our confessions And we return gaily to the muddy path, Believing a few… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
She had seen fear: the terrible helpless fear that rises up out of sadness and despair and is no longer attached to anything— the helpless fear that is tied only to nothingness. Not fear or anxiety or despair about a person or a situation, nothing, nothing, only the exposure, the vulnerability, being cast loose from… Continue reading Hans Keilson
We live off the distances. — Ernst Meister, Wallless Space. (Wave Books September 2, 2014)
Survival is insufficient. — Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven. (Knopf; First Edition edition September 9, 2014)
One can fill every inch with writing and still be no closer to the poem as it lies there a liar with a beautiful voice that is often mistaken for silence. — Elaine Equi, “This Is Not A Poem,” Decoy. (Coffee House Press; First Edition edition November 1, 1994)
Letting my sorrow flow free and sweet. — Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time Volume 2: In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower or Within a Budding Grave (Penguin Classics; Reprint edition January 25, 2005) Originally published 1919.
Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain? — Pablo Neruda, “III,” The Book of Questions. Translated by William O’Daly.… Continue reading Pablo Neruda