I often think about you when I’m lying alone in my room with my mouth open and the remote lost somewhere in the bed. — Leonard Cohen, “The Remote,” The Book of Longing. (McClelland & Stewart; Reprint edition March 27, 2007)
I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness. —Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet. (Penguin Classics, 2002)
Sometimes in our sleep we touch The body of another woman And we wake up And we know the first nights With summer visitors In the three storied house of our childhood. Whatever we remember, The darkest hair being brushed In front of the darkest mirror In the darkest room. — Frank Stanford, “You,”… Continue reading Frank Stanford
In the violence of overcoming, in the disorder of my laughter and my sobbing, in the excess of raptures that shatter me, I seize on the similarity between a horror and a voluptuousness that goes beyond me, between an ultimate pain and an unbearable joy! — Georges Bataille, The Tears of Eros. (City Lights Publishers… Continue reading Georges Bataille
The late poems are the ones I turn to first now following a hope that keeps beckoning me waiting somewhere in the lines almost in plain sight it is the late poems that are made of words that have come the whole way they have been there — W.S. Merwin, “Worn Words” The Shadow of… Continue reading W.S. Merwin
Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I’ll kiss you for it. —Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment. (Everyman’s Library; 12th edition May 25, 1993) Originally published 1866.
and beware those who only take instructions from their God for they have failed completely to live their own lives. — Charles Bukowski, from “For the Foxes,” Love is a Dog From Hell. (Ecco; Ecco edition May 31, 2002) Originally published 1977.