Ghazal of the Terrible Presence I want the river to stand still, And the wind to stop stirring the air. I want the night to remain sightless, And my heart to beat without flowering gold. I want the oxen to speak with the leaves, And the earthworm to die of darkness. The skull’s teeth… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
Do you know what the mathematical expression is for longing? … The negative numbers. The formalization of the feeling that you are missing something. — Peter Høeg, Smilla’s Sense of Snow (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1993)
It was so quiet you could hear the sprinklers on the lawn roll in their perfect arcs. If there is a sound the heart makes when it breaks it wasn’t heard. Jill Bialosky, from “The Day the World Stopped,” The End of Desire (Alfred A. Knopf, 1997)
We are captives of what we love, what we desire, and what we are. — Mahmoud Darwish, “The Hoopoe,” Unfortunately, It Was Paradise: Selected Poems. (University of California Press, 2003)
Hinged to forgetfulness like a door she slowly closed out of sight, and she was the woman that I loved, but too many times she slept like a mechanical deer in my caresses, and I ached in the metal silence of her dreams. — Richard Brautigan, “Hinged to forgetfulness like a door,” Rommel Drives on… Continue reading Richard Brautigan
Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.— Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time, Volume VI: Time Regained. (Modern Library; Rev Sub edition November 1, 2000) Originally published 1927.
Listen, if stars are lit it means – there is someone who needs it. It means – someone wants them to be, that someone deems those specks of spit magnificent. —Vladimir Mayakovsky, from “Listen!,” Listen! Early Poems. (City Lights Publishers; 1st City Lights Books ed edition January 1, 2001) Originally published 1987.
He dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love… — Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude. (Harper; 1st edition June 24, 2003) published June 1st 1967.
Be fire, not this ash slipping through the long fingers of a silent god. —Stevie Edwards, from “Daily Weather,” Humanly. (Small Doggies Press March 17, 2015)
I, too, can create desolation. — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. Published 1818 (Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones)