When night comes, something speaks from that soft, fragrant wilderness. It says, the heart is not a door. But it opens. We feel in the dark for the hinge. — Carole Glasser Langille, from “Five Doors,” In Cannon Cave (Brick Books, 1997)
There are many ways to drown, only the most obvious wave their arms as they’re going under. ― Nick Flynn, Another Bullshit Night in Suck City: A Memoir. (W. W. Norton; Reprint edition September 17, 2005)
Death and the Arkansas River Walking from the killing place, Walking in the mud, The bootsoles leave little hexes in the kitchen. One summer there was a place Where everyone chewed dirt in their supper. It was a place like an attic With a chest of orchids pressed in books. Men cleaned their fingernails In… Continue reading Frank Stanford
The highest goal that man can achieve is amazement. ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Theory of Colours. (The M.I.T. Press; 1st edition March 15, 1970) Originally published 1810.
You change between teeth and desire into nothing but cool light that loosens into a stream that touched us singing. And thus you don’t weigh us down in the burning siesta hour, you don’t weigh us down, you just go by and your great heart like a cold ember changed into the water of a… Continue reading Pablo Neruda
They made love in the dark by feel, without seeing each other. Is there another love than that of darkness, a love that would cry aloud in daylight? — Albert Camus, The Adulterous Woman. (Penguin 2011) Originally published 1957.
There was no relief from being human and so I turned to stone and now there’s no relief from being a stone. I didn’t choose to be a stone. — Dianne Seuss, “Oh I’m A Stone,” Wolf Lake, White Gown Blown Open: Poems. (University of Massachusetts Press April 6, 2010)
Religion asks you to learn from the experience of others. Spirituality urges you to seek your own. ― Neale Donald Walsch, The Complete Conversations with God. (TarcherPerigee; Box edition October 20, 2005) Originally January 1st 1998.
This was how it started, between the ruins and the wheel of fortune. Love was silent as a conspiracy no one could tell if life was immense or nothing, if time was flooding beyond the hills or if a revered god blocked the growth of any gesture or blocked the blackberries’ sweetness at the lips.… Continue reading Milo De Angelis
I don’t do anything with my life except romanticize and decay with indecision. — Allen Ginsberg, The Book of Martyrdom and Artifice: First Journals and Poems: 1937-1952. (Da Capo Press; 1st Da Capo Press Ed edition November 1, 2006)