Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me; so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go. This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I… Continue reading Theodore Roethke
…but it is in despair that the most burning pleasures occur… ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground, W…but it is in despair that the most burning pleasures occur… ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground, White Nights, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, and Selections from The House of the Dead. (Signet; Reissue edition, November 2,… Continue reading Fyodor Dostoyevsky
The Sphinx In a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting gloom. Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she does not stir For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that reel. Red follows… Continue reading Oscar Wilde
This sense of my own weakness and emptiness comforts me. I feel myself a mere speck of dust lost in space, yet I am part of that endless grandeur which envelopes me. I could never see why that should be cause for despair, since there could very well be nothing at all behind the black… Continue reading Gustave Flaubert
I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils, Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper weight, All the misery of manilla folders and mucilage, Desolation in immaculate public places, Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard, The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher, Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma, Endless duplicaton of lives and objects. And… Continue reading Theodore Roethke
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. ― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed. (HarperOne; 1 edition, February 6, 2001) Originally published 1961.
No shepherds. No nymphs. Maybe just one: the girl the fawn strips like a fisherman’s rose. Death turns its mouth red. It can no longer lie in the lilies. Not on my watch. The lake is filthy with silver fish sticky with leeches. Lovesick, I flick a feather into the water. No stones. Only the… Continue reading Beth Bachmann
For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker. ― Samuel Beckett, Molloy. (Grove Press, January 12, 1994) Originally published 1951.
I’m thinking that she is very much like California. When she is still her dress is like a roadmap. Highways Traveling up and down her skin Long empty highways With the moon chasing jackrabbits across them On hot summer nights. I am thinking that her body could be California And I a rich Eastern tourist… Continue reading Jack Spicer
But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope. ― George Eliot, Middlemarch. (Signet 2004) Originally published 1871.