American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Poetry

Charles Bukowski

I said goodbye again sucking up all that was left of her into the     little that was left of me. I said, don’t look for me again. fuck it. we are all lost. goodbye, goodbye. — Charles Bukowski, from “Rimbaud be damned,” The People Look Like Flowers at Last. (Ecco; First Edition edition March… Continue reading Charles Bukowski

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British Literature · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Short Stories · Stream of Consciousness

James Joyce

He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home.  He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife.  But shyness had always… Continue reading James Joyce

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Jack Gilbert

Suddenly this defeat. This rain. The blues gone gray And the browns gone gray And yellow A terrible amber. In the cold streets Your warm body. In whatever room Your warm body. Among all the people Your absence The people who are always Not you. I have been easy with trees Too long. Too familiar… Continue reading Jack Gilbert

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Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Relationships · Russian Culture · Russian Literature · Short Fiction · Short Stories

Anton Chekhov

…and with a burning pain in my heart I realized how unnecessary, how petty, and how deceptive all that had hindered us from loving was. I understood that when you love you must either, in your reasonings about that love, start from what is highest, from what is more important than happiness or unhappiness, sin… Continue reading Anton Chekhov

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American Culture · American Literature · Autobiographical · Classic · Contemporary · Excerpt · Memoir · Modernism · Non-fiction · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote

Ernest Hemingway

His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he… Continue reading Ernest Hemingway

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