She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray. (Modern Library; Modern Library edition June 1, 1998) Originally published June 20th 1890.
Tonight I lie awake and runyour absence through my fingers:here’s the touch of you,your warmth and give,our conspiracy of flightlessness. — Michael Symmons Roberts, from “Grounded,” Corpus. (Jonathan Cape / Random House; New edition July 20, 2004)
Did I say that she was beautiful? I was wrong. Beauty is too tame a notion; it evokes only faces in magazines. A lovely eloquence, a calming symmetry; none of that describes this woman’s face. So perhaps I should assume I cannot do it justice with words. Suffice it to say that it would break… Continue reading Clive Barker
Fate cannot worry to think out all the clever things that we should think out. It goes about its business solidly and unromantically, and by the ordinary laws of chance it achieves every now and then something startling and romantic. Superstition thrives on the fact that only the accidental dramas are reported. ― A.A. Milne,… Continue reading A.A. Milne
Salomé, Salomé, dance for me. I pray thee dance for me. I am sad to-night. Yes, I am passing sad to-night. When I came hither I slipped in blood, which is an evil omen; and I heard, I am sure I heard in the air a beating of wings, a beating of giant wings. I… Continue reading Oscar Wilde
Letter from Town: The Almond Tree You promised to send me some violets. Did you forget?White ones and blue ones from under the orchard hedge?Sweet dark purple, and white ones mixed for a pledgeOf our early love that hardly has opened yet. Here there’s an almond tree—you have never seenSuch a one in the north—it… Continue reading D.H. Lawrence
While I can’t have you, I long for you. I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee. I’d take a taxi across town to see you for ten minutes. I’d wait outside all night if I thought you would open the door in the… Continue reading Jeanette Winterson
And you would murmur tender words, Forgiving me, because you were dead: Nor would you rise and hasten away, Though you have the will of wild birds, But know your hair was bound and wound About the stars and moon and sun. — W.B. Yeats, from “He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead,” The Wind Among… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself. — D.H. Lawrence, “Self-Pity,” The Complete Poems. (Wordsworth Editions Ltd; New edition edition September 5, 1994) Originally published 1964.
I know love is dark work; you have to get your hands dirty. If you hold back, nothing interesting happens. At the same time, you have to find the right distance between people. Too close, and they overwhelm you; too far and they abandon you. How to hold them in the right relation? ― Hanif… Continue reading Hanif Kureishi