About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she murmured, dreamily, half asleep, how we perished, each alone. — Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse. (Pomona Press, January 1, 2006) Originally published 1927.
He takes her in his arms. He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you but he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end you’re dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true. — Louise Glück, from “A Myth of Devotion,” Averno:… Continue reading Louise Glück
Everything measurable passes, everything that can be counted has an end. Only three things are infinite: the sky in its stars, the sea in its drops of water, and the heart in its tears. ― Gustave Flaubert, The Letters of Gustave Flaubert, 1830-1857. (Belknap Press: An Imprint of Harvard University Press; First Edition (US) First… Continue reading Gustave Flaubert
I saw the trees flare briefly like The candles upon a cake As the sun went down the sky, A momentary flash, Yet there was time to wish Before the light could die, If I had known what to wish, As once I must have known, Bending above the clean, Candlelit tablecloth To blow them… Continue reading Donald Justice