It is difficult to speak of the night. It is the other time. Not an absence of day. But where there are no flowers to turn away into. There is only this dark and the familiar place of my body. — Jack Gilbert, from “It is Difficult to Speak of the Night,” Poetry (January 1965)
Happiness is something that comes into our lives through doors we don’t even remember leaving open. ― Rose Wilder Lane
[No crying, calling out, complaining] No crying, calling out, complaining, This all will pass, like the green of gold, Like the white smoke of apple blooms, And I won’t be as young as I used to. Already, your blood isn’t as quick as it was, I tell my heart—and it’s getting colder. White birch roots… Continue reading Sergei Esenin
Do you see the story? Do you see anything? It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream–making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible… Continue reading Joseph Conrad
Thoughts that found a maze of mermaid hair Tangling in the tide’s green fall Now fold their wings like bats and disappear Into the attic of the skull. — Sylvia Plath, from “Two Lovers and a Beachcomber by the Real Sea,” Written in 1955, the year she graduated from Smith College summa cum laude. It… Continue reading Sylvia Plath
There is really nothing more to say—except why. But since why is difficult to handle, one must take refuge in the how. — Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye. (Plume September 6, 2005) Originally published 1970.
there, as here, ruin opens the tomb, the temple; enter, there as here, there are no doors… ― H.D., from “The Walls Do Not Fall,” Trilogy: The Walls Do Not Fall / Tribute to the Angels / The Flowering of the Rod. (New Directions; Reprint edition September 17, 1998) Originally published January 1st 1973.