Man reckons with immortality, and forgets to reckon with death. ― Milan Kundera, Immortality. (Faber Faber Inc January 3, 1998) Originally published 1990.
Aubade I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what’s really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid… Continue reading Philip Larkin
Then at certain moments I remember one of his words and I suddenly feel the sensual woman flaring up, as if violently caressed. I say the word to myself, with joy. It is at such a moment that my true body lives. —Anaïs Nin, Henry and June: from A Journal of Love: The Unexpurgated Diary… Continue reading Anaïs Nin
The passion of wandering changes us into a poem that has opened its windows so the pigeons can complete the poem then carry it as a meaning that brings back the sap to the invisible trees on the banks of our souls … — Mahmoud Darwish, from “The Hoopoe,” If I Were Another: Poems. Translation… Continue reading Mahmoud Darwish
She is passion embodied, a flower of melodrama in eternal bloom. —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot. (Modern Library April 8, 2003) Originally published 1869.