[…] remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world. — Ocean Vuong, from “Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong,” The New Yorker: Poems. May 4, 2015 Issue.
Loneliness is necessary for pure poetry. When someone intrudes into the poet’s life (and any sudden personal contact, whether in the bed or in the heart, is an intrusion) the poet loses his or her balance for a moment, slips into being what he or she is, uses his or her poetry as one would… Continue reading Jack Spicer
It pained him to hear Hervé Joncour softly saying, in conclusion: “I have never even heard her voice.” And a while later: “It is a strange sort of pain.” Softly. “To die of yearning for something you’ll never experience.” — Alessandro Baricco, Silk. Published by Rizzoli (editore.) Published in English (1996.)