[P]hilosophy is the art of masking inner torments. — Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair. (University Of Chicago Press,1996) Originally published 1933.
Wasp spirit journeying through the barn-roof rays, spark and dull and spark, lift me, I am odor of storage, lift me, I am belly of cornmeal, lift me, all things high, wild berry jelly held to the light, lift me from this knot- hole heart and spiral paring of the apple dark. — Cal Bedient,… Continue reading Cal Bedient
Sometimes I see me dead in the rain. — J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey. (Little, Brown and Company; 1st edition, January 30, 1961)
It’s sunny outside. It’s only a sun Yet men look at it and sing. I don’t know about the sun. I know about the melody of angels and the heated sermon of the last wind. I know how to scream until dawn when death settles naked on my shadow. I cry beneath my name. I… Continue reading Alejandra Pizarnik
If you had really loved something, wouldn’t a little bit of it always linger? — Susan Orlean, The Orchid Thief (Random House, 1998)
In a room as big as loneliness my heart which is as big as love looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase at the sapling you planted in our garden and the song of canaries which sing to the size of a window. — Forough… Continue reading Forough Farrokhzad
My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I’m not a sad man, and I don’t believe I sadden anyone else. In other words, the fact that I don’t put my philosophy into practice saves me from its evil spell, or, rather, my faith in the human race is stronger then my intellectual analysis of it; there… Continue reading Antonio Machado