And silence, like darkness, can be kind; it, too, is a language. — Hanif Kureishi, Intimacy (Scribner, 1999)
I empty myself with light Until I become morning. — Charles Wright, from “33,” Littlefoot: A Poem (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)
And amid all this confusion I, what’s truly I, am the centre that exists only in the geometry of the abyss: I’m the nothing around which everything spins, existing only so that it can spin, being a centre only because every circle has one. I, what’s truly I, am a well without walls but with… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make and end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. — T. S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets. (Faber & Faber 1959) Originally published 1943.
There is immeasurably more left inside than what comes out in words. Your thought, even a bad one, while it is with you, is always more profound, but in words it is more ridiculous and dishonorable. — Fyodor Dostoevsky
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally: Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me. — Sylvia Plath, from “I Am Vertical,” The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath, edited by Ted Hughes. (Turtleback Books December 25th 1981) Originally published 1981.
In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul,… Continue reading Percy Bysshe Shelley