The soul too is a debasement of a text, but, thus, it acquires salience, although a human salience, but inimitable, and, hence, memorable. God is the text. The soul is a corruption and a mnemonic. — Li-Young Lee, from “The Cleaving,” The City in Which I Love You (BOA Editions Ltd., 1990)
For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable – what then? ― George Orwell, 1984. (Signet Classic… Continue reading George Orwell
She does not love you. Your metaphors thrill her, You are her poet But that’s all there is to it. — Mahmoud Darwish, from “She Does Not Love You,” Almond Blossoms and Beyond. Trans. by Mohammad Shaheen. (Interlink Pub Group 2009)
Only one woman exists in this world, one woman with countless faces. ― Nikos Kazantzakis, The Last Temptation of Christ. (Simon & Schuster; Reprint edition March 1, 1998) Originally published 1952.
End of Winter Over the still world, a bird calls waking solitary among black boughs. You wanted to be born; I let you be born. When has my grief ever gotten in the way of your pleasure? Plunging ahead into the dark and light at the same time eager for sensation as though you were… Continue reading Louise Glück
Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being to which we rarely penetrate for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves. ― T.S. Eliot
The last memory I have Is of a flower which cannot be touched, Through the bloom of which, all day, Fly crazed, missing bees. — Galway Kinnell, from “Flower Herding on Mount Monadnock,” Flower Herding on Mount Monadnock (Houghton Mifflin, 1964)