He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words. ― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude. (Harper; 1st edition June 24, 2003) published June 1st 1967.
Ode to a Cluster of Violets Crisp cluster plunged in shadow. Drops of violet water and raw sunlight floated up with your scent. A fresh subterranean beauty climbed up from your buds thrilling my eyes and my life. One at a time, flowers that stretched forward silvery stalks, creeping closer to an obscure light shoot… Continue reading Pablo Neruda
I think how little we can hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion with every extinguished life, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power of memory is never heard, never described or passed on. — W.… Continue reading W. G. Sebald
You and I have always had complex dreams that open up into new conjoined universes that explode on impact and make us groggy in the morning, groping for our oversized coffee mugs. New exercises for new muscles. Gargling. Dilation. A double dose of happy hygiene. Good morning, honey. Our beaks clack when we kiss. —… Continue reading Jamey Gallagher
Forgetting is like a great alchemy free of secrets, limpid, transforming everything to the present. In the end it makes our lives into this visible and tangible thing we hold in our hands, with no folds left hidden in the past. — César Aira, The Seamstress and the Wind. (New Directions June 30, 2011) Originally… Continue reading César Aira
And I saw it didn’t matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds—nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries… Continue reading Dorianne Laux
It´s a good thing when a man is different from your image of him. Is shows he isn´t a type. If he were, it would be the end of him as a man. But if you can´t place him in a category, it means that at least a part of him is what a human… Continue reading Boris Pasternak