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Joyce Carol Oates

The strangeness of Time. Not in its passing, which can seem infinite, like a tunnel whose end you can’t see, whose beginning you’ve forgotten, but in the sudden realization that something finite, has passed, and is irretrievable. — Joyce Carol Oates, Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang (Dutton, 1993)

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Wislawa Szymborska

Poetry– but what sort of thing is poetry? More than one shaky answer has been given to this question. But I do not know and do not know and clutch on to it, as to a saving bannister. — Wislawa Szymborska, from “Some Like Poetry,” The New Yorker: October 21, 1996 Issue.

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Henri Barbusse

I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all alone. — Henri Barbusse, THE INFERNO ** UNDER FIRE ** LIGHT (Timeless Wisdom Collection) Business… Continue reading Henri Barbusse

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John Koethe

A sudden [b]reeze sweeps through the vacant lots, scattering leaves And cellophane, the miscellaneous detritus of a life. Like scraps of paper carried by the breeze from home To here, and then a figure walking towards me Across an open field, coming from the vast distance Things tend towards, they come at last to me:… Continue reading John Koethe

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