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

Kim Addonizio

Stolen Moments | What happened, happened once. So now it’s best in memory—an orange he sliced: the skin unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin membrane between us, the exquisite orange, tongue, orange, my nakedness and his, the way he pushed me up against the fridge— Now… Continue reading Kim Addonizio

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Autobiographical · Biographical · British Culture · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Correspondence · English Literature · Epistolary · Excerpt · Memoir · Non-fiction · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Romanticism · Victorian

John Keats

My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you. I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again – my Life seems to stop there – I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving – I should be exquisitely miserable… Continue reading John Keats

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Anthology · British Culture · Classic · Collection · English Literature · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry

Philip Larkin

Admitted: and the pain is real. But when did love not try to change The world back to itself—no cost, No past, no people else at all— Only what meeting made us feel, So new, and gentle-sharp, and strange? — Philip Larkin, from “When first we faced, and touching showed,” Philip Larkin: Collected Poems, ed.… Continue reading Philip Larkin

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Adult · American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Coming of Age · Contemporary · Drama · Excerpt · Fiction · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Young Adult

Janet Fitch

Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people… Continue reading Janet Fitch

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American Counterculture · American Literature · Anthology · Black Mountain Poetry · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Poetry · The Beat Generation

Robert Creeley

There is that in love which, by the syntax of, men find women and join their bodies of their minds —which wants so to acquire a continuity, a place, a demonstration that it must be one’s own sentence. — Robert Creeley, “The Sentence,” The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975 (University of Californina, 1982)a

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American Culture · Author · Excerpt · Hysterical Realism · Interview · Magazine · New Sincerity · Non-fiction · Novelist · Paraphrase · Passage · Periodical · Postmodernism · Quote · Writing

David Foster Wallace

We’re all terribly, terribly lonely. And there’s a way, at least in prose fiction, that can allow you to be intimate with the world and with a mind and with characters that you just can’t be in the real world. — David Foster Wallace, Whiskey Island, Spring, 1993.

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

Noelle Kocot

“You” have transformed into “my loss.” The nettles in your vanished hair Restore the absolute truth Of warring animals without a haven. I know, I’m as pathetic as a railroad Without tracks. In June, I eat The lonesome berries from the branches. What can I say, except the forecast Never changes. I sleep without you,… Continue reading Noelle Kocot

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17th-Century · Determinism · Dutch Culture · Epistemology · Ethics · Metaphysics · Neutral Monism · Pantheism · Parallelism · Paraphrase · Philosopher · Quote · Rationalism · Spinozism · Western Philosophy

Baruch Spinoza

The more you struggle to live, the less you live. Give up the notion that you must be sure of what you are doing. Instead, surrender to what is real within you, for that alone is sure….you are above everything distressing. ― Baruch Spinoza

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

Ralph Angel

Today, my love, leaves are thrashing the wind just as pedestrians are erecting again the buildings of this drab forbidding city, and our lives, as I lose track of them, are the lives of others derailing in time and getting things done. Impossible to make sense of any one face or mouth, though each distance… Continue reading Ralph Angel

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