Closure is a greasy little word which, moreover, describes a nonexistent condition. The truth, Venus, is that nobody gets over anything. — Martin Amis, House of Meetings. (Knopf; First Edition edition, January 16, 2007) Advertisements
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world… Continue reading T. S. Eliot
Wind flowers in the mist as if dark-grown, as spindly as whims, off the grey coast where there’s no horizon but one we infer, where they walk or sleepwalk, in their middle distance of just-possibility considering all this in their absent and abstracted way, three-petalled, unpeeling themselves: loves me loves me not —… Continue reading Philip Gross
If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are? — T. S. Eliot
If sleep were not an agency of change we would wake every day exactly as we were when we went to sleep. But every day is convulsed by a death and a resurrection. — Christopher Potter, How to Make a Human Being: A Body of Evidence (Fourth Estate Ltd., 2014)
What if I told you I’m incapable of tolerating my own heart? — Virginia Woolf, Night and Day. (Penguin Classics; Reprint edition, January 1, 1996) Originally published October 1919.
In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin — T. S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets (Harcourt, 1943)