There can be no more beautiful spot to die in, no spot more worthy of total despair, than one’s own novel. — Franz Kafka, Diaries, 1910-1923. (Schocken, October 30, 1988) Originally published 1949.
I draw the curtains. The room darkens, but the mirror still reflects a crescent moon. I pull the crescent out, a rigid curve that softens into a length of cloth. I wrap the cloth around my eyes, and I’m peering through a crack in a wall revealing a landscape of snow. — Eduardo C. Corral,… Continue reading Eduardo C. Corral
Rather the artist’s delight in what becomes, the cheerfulness of artistic creation that defies all misfortune, is merely a bright image of clouds and sky mirrored in a black lake of sadness. — Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy. (Penguin Classics; unknown edition, January 1, 1994) Originally published 1871.
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives — tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like? Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you? Never to enter the sea and… Continue reading Mary Oliver