In Praise of Darkness Old age (the name that others give it) can be the time of our greatest bliss. The animal has died or almost died. The man and his spirit remain. I live among vague, luminous shapes that are not darkness yet. Buenos Aires, whose edges disintegrated into the endless plain, has gone… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
We are made of waiting– — Nick Flynn, from “Drones,” Blind Huber (Graywolf Press, 2002)
The music carves hot petals through our bodies in its ritual of tides and light; licks us open from the inside until we are night-blooming jasmine seduced by the moon. — Lorie Howe, from “High Plains Solstice,” Cloudshade (Sastrugi Press, 2015)
Burdens are for shoulders strong enough to carry them. ― Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind. (Grand Central Publishing; Reprint edition April 1, 1999) Originally published 1936.
Maybe this is what it means to be alive on earth, alive on earth and nothing more. — Eliza Browning, from “Primer for the Smaller Things,” L’Éphémère Review (no. 13, Summer 2019)
I already knew this immense tenderness, which is only the last degree of sorrow… I knew then, already, that the intimacy of things is death. — Georges Bataille, L’Impossible, translation by Robert Hurley. (Editions de Minuit, April 1, 1962) Originally published 1947.
Vanish. Pass into nothingness: the Keats line that frightened her. Fade as the blue nights fade, go as the brightness goes. Go back into the blue. I myself placed her ashes in the wall. I myself saw the cathedral doors locked at six. I know what it is I am now experiencing. I know what… Continue reading Joan Didion