… when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be.—Yes, he thought, between grief and nothing I will take grief. — William Faulkner, from “Wild Plains,” If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem. (HarperPerennial Classics June 4, 2013) Originally published 1939.
The Far Field I I dream of journeys repeatedly: Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula, The road lined with snow-laden second growth, A fine dry snow ticking the windshield, Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic, And no lights behind, in the… Continue reading Theodore Roethke
Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again. — Willa Cather, My Ántonia. (iUniverse February 14, 2000) Originally published 1918.
You’ll be driving along depressed when suddenly a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably won’t last. But for a moment the whole world comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives— red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermillion, gold. Flame and rust.… Continue reading Lloyd Schwartz
In the beginning was the fragment, and the fragment cast a shadow, and the shadow became the word. — Carlos V. Reye, from “Histories,” in “Fragments on Fragments 1,” FragLit (no. 1, Fall 2007)
I saw my world again through your eyes; through your eyes it was foreign. Anything wild, on legs, in your eyes Emerged at a point of exclamation As if it had appeared to dinner guests In the middle of the table. You were a camera recording reflections you could not fathom. I made my world… Continue reading Ted Hughes
What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak… It was born in the moments when we accumulated silent things within us. — Gaston Bachelard, Water and Dreams: An Essay on the Imagination of Matter. (Dallas Inst Humanities & Culture; 3rd edition March 15, 1999) Originally… Continue reading Gaston Bachelard