Perhaps it’s good for one to suffer. Can an artist do anything if he’s happy? Would he ever want to do anything? What is art, after all, but a protest against the horrible inclemency of life? — Aldous Huxley, Antic Hay. (Kessinger Publishing May 2005) Originally published 1923.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue the attack of migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye. — W.H. Auden, from “At Last the Secret… Continue reading W.H. Auden
I’m afraid of losing my obscurity. Genuineness only thrives in the dark. Like celery. — Aldous Huxley
Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings. ― W.H. Auden, The Double Man, a book of poems by W. H. Auden, published in 1941. The title of the UK edition, published later the same year, was New Year Letter. (Faber and Faber; First Edition edition 1941)
Mind led body to the edge of the precipice. They stared in desire at the naked abyss. If you love me, said mind, take that step into silence. If you love me, said body, turn and exist. — Anne Stevenson, “Vertigo,” Granny Scarecrow. (Bloodaxe Books Ltd January 2001)
I have been studying the difference between solitude and loneliness, telling the story of my life to the clean warm towels taken warm from the dryer. I carry them through the house as though they were my children asleep in my arms. —Richard Jones, “White Towels,” At Last We Enter Paradise. (Copper Canyon Press July… Continue reading Richard Jones
The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the… Continue reading Aldous Huxley