Because I know that time is always timeAnd place is always and only placeAnd what is actual is actual only for one timeAnd only for one placeI rejoice that things are as they are andI renounce the blessèd faceAnd renounce the voiceBecause I cannot hope to turn againConsequently I rejoice, having to construct somethingUpon which… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. — T.S. Eliot, from “La Figlia che Piange,” quoted in The Hyacinth Girl: T.S. Eliot’s Hidden Muse by Lyndall Gordon (Virago Press, 2022)
DANCE there upon the shore;What need have you to careFor wind or water’s roar?And tumble out your hairThat the salt drops have wet;Being young you have not knownThe fool’s triumph, nor yetLove lost as soon as won,Nor the best labourer deadAnd all the sheaves to bind.What need have you to dreadThe monstrous crying of wind!… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. — Graham Greene, The End of the Affair (Heinemann, 1951)
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. ― George Orwell, 1984 ( Plume, January 1, 2014) Originally published June 8th 1949.
…you love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And there I will die smothered. ― D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers ( Modern Library; Reprint edition, August 17, 1999) Originally published 1913.
But my love had no intentions: it knew the future. All one could do was try to make the future less hard, to break the future gently when it came. ― Graham Greene
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture! — Robert Browning, from “Home-Thoughts, from Abroad,” Poetry Magazine
[P]raise silence, & put flesh on every w All real living hurts as well as fulfils. Happiness comes when we have lived and have a respite for sheer forgetting. Happiness, in the vulgar sense, is just a holiday experience. The life-long happiness lies in being used by life; hurt by life, driven and goaded by… Continue reading D.H. Lawrence
The winter afternoon was reddening towards evening, and already: ruby light was rolled over the bloomless beds, filling them, as it were, with the ghosts of the dead roses. – G.K. Chesterton, from “The Flying Stars,” The Complete Father Brown (Penguin, 1981)