We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality. We sleep in a long reproachful dust against ourselves. We are full to the gorge with our own names for misery. Life, the pastures in which the night feeds and prunes the cud that nourishes us to despair. Life, the permission to know… Continue reading Djuna Barnes
What happened is what happens to all of us: we walked On the earth, we threw a couple of handfuls of dirt Into the air, and when it came down it covered us. – Charles Wright, “Whatever Happened to Al Lee?,” Caribou: Poems (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2014)
Made of stone, eternal and animalistic, beautiful and cold, soulless, and yet filled with a hidden, terrifying life. He was surrounded by the aura of a tranquil emptiness, with air and stars, with this desolate death. — Hermann Hesse, , Demian. (Suhrkamp Verlag (May 3, 1996) Originally published 1919.