American Culture · American Literature · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry · Southern Gothic · Southern Literature

Frank Stanford

Weariness of Men My grandmother said when she was young The grass was so wild and high You couldn’t see a man on horseback. In the fields she made out Three barns, Dark and blown down from the weather Like her husbands. She remembers them in the dark, Cursing the beasts, And how they would… Continue reading Frank Stanford

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American Literature · Buddhism · Excerpt · Inspirational · Meditations · Mental Health · Paraphrase · Philosophy · Psychology · Quote · Religion · Self-help

Pema Chödrön,

Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity. —  Pema Chödrön, The Places That Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in… Continue reading Pema Chödrön,

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Absurdism · Classic · Excerpt · Existentialism · Literature · Paraphrase · Philosophical Novel · Philosophy · Quote

Albert Camus

She was wearing a pair of my pajamas with the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed I wanted her again. A minute later she asked me if I loved her. I told her it didn’t mean anything but that I didn’t think so. She looked sad. But as we were fixing lunch, and for no… Continue reading Albert Camus

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Collection · Excerpt · Fragment · Iranian Culture · Iranian Literature · Persian Culture · Poetry

Forough Farrokhzad

Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette in the narcotic repose between two love-makings or the absent gaze of a passerby who takes off his hat to another passerby with a meaningless smile and a good morning — Forough Farrokhzad, from “Another Birth,” Another Birth: Selected Poems. (Zabankadeh Publications 2001)

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Classic · Excerpt · Literature · Modernism · Stream of Consciousness

Virginia Woolf

She had the rapt look of one brushing through crowds on a summer’s afternoon, when the trees are rustling, the wheels churning yellow, and the tumult of the present seems like an elegy for past happiness and past summers, and there rose in her mind a curious sadness, as if time and eternity showed through… Continue reading Virginia Woolf

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