Deep experience is never peaceful. — Henry James, from “Madame de Mauves,” Galaxy Magazine (February/March 1874), ch. V, reprinted in A Passionate Pilgrim (1875) and later in The Madonna of the Future and Other Tales (1879) and the New York Edition of James’ works, vol. 13 (1908).
It’s stranger than every strangeness And the dreams of all the poets And the thoughts of all the philosophers, That things are really what they seem to be And there’s nothing to understand. ― Fernando Pessoa (Alberto Caeiro), The Keeper of Sheep. (Sheep Meadow; Trans. from the Portuguese edition, December 1, 1997) Originally published April… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa
Your life was a hypothesis. Those who die old are made of the past. Thinking of them, one thinks of what they have done. Thinking of you, one thinks of what you could have become. You were, and you will remain, made up of possibilities. ― Édouard Levé, Suicide. (P.O.L. (ï¿½DITIONS); POL edition, April 15,… Continue reading Édouard Levé
After the Grand Perhaps After vespers, after the first snow has fallen to its squalls, after New Wave, after the anorexics have curled into their geometric forms, after the man with the apparition in his one bad eye has done red things behind the curtain of the lid & sleeps, after the fallout shelter in… Continue reading Lucie Brock-Broido
By four o’clock, I’ve discounted suicide in favor of killing everyone else in the entire world instead. ― Warren Ellis, Transmetropolitan, Vol. 3: Year of the Bastard. (Vertigo; Cmc edition, September 1, 1999)
Do not talk any more. Do not speak. Do not break silence until We are weary of each other. Let our fingers run like steel Carving the contours of our bodies’ gold. Do not speak. My face sinks In the clotted summer of your hair. The sound of the bees stops. Stillness falls like a… Continue reading Kenneth Rexroth
Finite players play within boundaries; infinite players play with boundaries. ― James P. Carse, Finite and Infinite Games. (Ballantine 1986)
All day I have written words: My subject has been that. Words. And I am wrong. And the words. I burn Three pages of them. Words. And the moon, moonlight, that too I burn. —A poem remains. But in the words, in the words In the fire that is now words. I eat the… Continue reading Robert Sward