When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my ‘mind’s eye’ flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head. — John Keats, from “To Hope” (February,… Continue reading John Keats
It’s ridiculous to live 100 years and only be able to remember 30 million bytes. You know, less than a compact disc. The human condition is really becoming more obsolete every minute. —Marvin Minsky
I feel insignificant, lost, but exultant. — Virginia Woolf, The Waves. (Harvest Books 1978) Originally published October 8th 1931.
Eternalise me just a bit: take some snow and sculpt me in it, with your warm and bare palm polish me until I shine . . . — Vera Pavlova, Письма в соседнюю комнату: 1001 признание в люk. Translation: Steven Seymour. (AST Publishing House, Moscow, 2006)
To Myself You are riding the bus again burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80, the sole passenger with an overhead light on. And I am with you. I’m the interminable fields you can’t see, the little lights off in the distance (in one of those rooms we are living) and I am the rain… Continue reading Franz Wright
Never envy a man his lady. Behind it all lays a living hell. – Charles Bukowski, letter to Steven Richmond (Published in Charles Bukowski: Locked in the Arms of a Crazy Life by Howard Sounes) Grove Press; 1st Paperback Edition edition (May 2, 2000)
When I love, it happens almost all at once. It is inconsiderate, unrefined— a child screeching in a supermarket. It is a thunder clap. It is a small village blackout. It is Aphrodite rising from the sea foam, fully formed. — Salma Deera, “The Graceless Matter of Loving,” Letters From Medea. (October 17, 2015)
Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist. — George Carlin
I’ve seen people misplace themselves in such a heart flare-up. Watched their temperatures drop and I don’t know much about wilderness but on days like these when you are harder to find I want to learn the word seasons properly. Feel its backside roll against my molars so I can feel free, like when we… Continue reading Angel Nafis
We are too late for the gods and too early for Being. — Martin Heidegger, from “The Thinker as Poet,” Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. Albert Hofstadter, New York: Harper, 1971: 4, 7.
The Vale of Soul-Making 