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Oscar Wilde

The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? — Oscar Wilde, ”De Profundis,” Originally published: 1905. De Profundis and Other… Continue reading Oscar Wilde

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Uche Nduka

somewhere behind the napes, armorial backbone. ripeness that goes on and on. a kayak, waist-deep. in blood is where the acorn grows. which means the world is ravenous. i want to eat my cake and have it. lover, am i not your invention? — Uche Nduka, “Somewhere Behind the Napes,” Overpassbooks January 15, 2013

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Kahlil Gibran

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy; And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. And you would watch with serenity through the… Continue reading Kahlil Gibran

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Robert Goolrick,

Sometimes she sat and let her mind go blank and her eyes go out of focus, so that she watched the slow, jerky movements of the motes that floated across her pupils. They amazed her as a child. Now she saw them as a reflection of how she moved, floating listlessly through the world, occasionally… Continue reading Robert Goolrick,

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Maureen N. McLane

What I’m looking for may not be there. What you’re looking for may not be me. What I’m looking for may not be there. What you’re looking for may not be me. I’m listening for the return of that sound I heard in the woods just now, that silvery sound that seemed to call not… Continue reading Maureen N. McLane

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James Baldwin

Societies never know it, but the war of an artist with his society is a lover’s war, and he does, at his best, what lovers do, which is to reveal the beloved to himself and, with that revelation, to make freedom real. — James Baldwin, “The Creative Process,” Creative America. (The National Cultural Center /… Continue reading James Baldwin

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Jack Gilbert

Is she more apparent because she is not anymore forever? Is her whiteness more white because she was the color of pale honey? A smokestack making the sky more visible. A dead woman filling the whole world. Michiko said, “The roses you gave me kept me awake with the sound of their petals falling. —… Continue reading Jack Gilbert

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