I Sing the Body Electric 1 I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul. Was it doubted that those… Continue reading Walt Whitman
“Don’t worry,” he would say, smiling. “Dying is much more difficult than one imagines.” — Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude. (Harper & Row, 1970)
you can drip with despair all afternoon and still, on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched by the passing foil of the water, the thrush, puffing out its spotted breast, will sing of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything. — Mary Oliver, “The Poet With His Face in His Hands,” New and… Continue reading Mary Oliver
I love you, and loving you I torment you. — Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 12th edition June 14, 2002) Originally published November 1880.
At times I hardly can believe in you. Except this ache, this longing in my gut, this emptiness which theorizes you because if there is emptiness this deep, there must be fullness somewhere. — Erica Jong, from “The Evidence,” Half-Lives (Henry Holt & Co, 1973)
The mission of every human being is to fulfill the lie he incarnates, to succeed in being no more than an exhausted illusion. — Emil M. Cioran, Anathemas And Admirations. (Arcade Publishing, September 15, 1998)
One dark night, my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull; I watched for love-cars . Lights turned down, they lay together, hull to hull, where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . . My mind’s not right. A car radio bleats, “Love, O careless Love. . . .” I hear my ill-spirit sob in… Continue reading Robert Lowell
We sit in the mud my friend and reach for the stars. — Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons. (Signet, February 1, 2005) Originally published February 1862.
Don’t ask me why I came down to the water’s edge— hell, I was young, and I thought I knew life, I thought I could hold the darkness the way a man holds a cup of coffee before he wakens — Philip Levine, from “Here and Now,” Poetry (September 1977)
Too weird to live, too rare to die! ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Random House November 11, 1971 and November 25, 1971 (magazine), July 1972 (book)