It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are thoroughly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger after them.― ― George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss. (Penguin Classics; Reissue edition April 29, 2003) Originally published 1860.
The earth is a trembling thing. I lay at her feet and kiss her ankle. We are all trembling things. — Anis Mojgani, from “This House” The Feather Room. (Write Bloody Publishing; 1St Edition edition April 1, 2011)
I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it. ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights. (Thomas Cautley Newby December 1847)
My heart is bleeding for the poet whose queue of words is getting longer for the branchless sparrow who’s swallowed its twitter for the restitution of a crow with no overhead wire for myself gone from the house like electricity I was somebody Did the foolish thing became a poet… Continue reading Ali Abdolrezaei
I’m done with those; regrets are an excuse for people who have failed. ― Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story. (Miramax April 3, 2007)
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds riding the storm above the marksman’s range; exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered, he cannot walk because of his great wings. —Charles Baudelaire, from “The Albatross,” Les Fleurs Du Mal (David R. Godine October 1st 1983. Originally published 1857.
Don’t ask for guarantees. And don’t look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were heading for shore. ― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451. (Harper Voyager; Clothbound edition edition March 28, 2013) Originally published October 1st 1953.
Dear Suicide— How long have you been standing in the doorway holding a fretsaw & dreaming of indentations? You said the body was furniture, was fixture but we couldn’t fix it. Sometimes, you the only one talking, though neither of us narrate the way we used to; we can’t locate the colloquial phrase to… Continue reading Simone Muench
It may be the wrong decision, but fuck it, it’s mine. – Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves. (Pantheon, Random House March 7, 2000)
on the other side of the night love is possible —take me there— take me among the sweet substances that die each day in your memory — Alejandra Pizarnik, “Oblivion,” Selected Poems, trans. Cecilia Rossi (Waterloo Press, 2010)