He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. ― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (Penguin Classics; 1 edition, March 25, 2003) Originally published December 29th 1916.
My rooms will receive me. But my rooms are no longer sweet spaces where comfort is ready to wait on me with its crumbs. A darkness has brushed them. The mass of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken. Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed. I am shaken, broken against a might that splits… Continue reading William Carlos Williams
My body gnaws at me from one side and my spirit gnaws at me from the other. — Charles Bukowski, “I Love You, Albert,” Hot Water Music. (Black Sparrow Press; First edition. Edition, October 1983)
Charmed, the storyteller is always surprised by the hard truths of his [or her] own enchanting lies. — Sam Hamill, from “Ars Poetica,” What Will Suffice: Contemporary American Poets on the Art of Poetry, ed. by Christopher Buckley and Christopher Merrill. (Gibbs Smith; 1st edition, August 31, 1995)