A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers. Everyone takes what he wants or can from it and thus changes it to his measure. Some pick out parts and reject the rest, some strain the story through… Continue reading John Steinbeck
A man so painfully in love is capable of self-torture beyond belief. — John Steinbeck, East of Eden. ( The Viking Press September 1952)
How sweet the silent backward tracings! — Walt Whitman, from “Memories,” First Annex: Sands at Seventy, Leaves of Grass: The Deathbed Edition (BOMC, 1992)
You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs, And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row; You tokens diminute and lorn—(not now the flush of May, or July clover-bloom—no grain of August now;) You pallid banner-staves—you pennants valueless—you overstay’d of time, Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest, The faithfulest—hardiest—last.… Continue reading Walt Whitman
PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you, You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,) I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you, All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste,… Continue reading Walt Whitman
A NOISELESS, patient spider, I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated; Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself; Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them. And you, O my Soul, where you stand, Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing,… Continue reading Walt Whitman
My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears. ― Jack Kerouac, Atop an Underwood: Early Stories and Other Writings. (Penguin Books; Fourth Printing edition, November 1, 2000) Originally published November 1st 1999.