Gacela of the Flight I have lost myself in the sea many tunes with my ear full of freshly cut flowers, with my tongue full of love awl agony. I have lost myself in the sea many times as I lose myself in the heart of certain children. There is no one who in giving… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
I will be your poet, I will be more to you than to any of the rest. — Walt Whitman, from “Native Moments,” Leaves of Grass: The Deathbed Edition (BOMC, 1992)
I care for you, darling, I love you, the only reason I fucked L. is because you fucked Z. and then I fucked R. and you fucked N. and because you fucked N. I had to fuck Y. But I think of you constantly, I feel you here in my belly like a baby, love… Continue reading Charles Bukowski
I’d always worried about being practically empty, about having no serious reason for living. And now, confronted with the facts, I was sure of my individual nullity. In that environment, too different from the one where my petty habits were at home, I seem to have disintegrated, I felt very close to nonexistence. I discovered… Continue reading Louis-Ferdinand Céline
The endless corridors of memory, the doors that open into an empty room where all the summers have come to rot — Octavio Paz, from “Sunstone,” World Poetry: An Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time, ed. Katharine Washburn, John S. Major and Clifton Fadiman (W. W. Norton & Co., 2000)
Everything goes. I am working very hard at not thinking about how everything goes. — Joan Didion, Play It As It Lays. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 2nd edition, November 15, 2005) Originally published 1970.
Where is the child I was, still inside me or gone? Does he know that I never loved him and that he never loved me? Why did we spend so much time growing up only to separate? Why did we both not die when my childhood died? And why does my skeleton pursue me if… Continue reading Pablo Neruda