Everything once had a soul, even this clam, this pebble. Each had a secret name. Everything listened. Everything was real, but didn’t always love you. You needed to take care. — Margaret Atwood, from “Because We Love Bare Hills and Stunted Trees,” Poetry Ireland Review Issue 116 Advertisements
He sits down at the table; people in exile write so many letters. Now Ovid is weeping. Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing. — Anne Carson, from “On Ovid,” Plainwater: Essays and Poetry. (Vintage; Reprint edition, March 28, 2000) Originally published 1995.
As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armour themselves against wonder. — Leonard Cohen, The Favourite Game. (Vintage; Reprint edition, October 14, 2003)
We are not mad. We are human.We want to love, and someone must forgive us for the paths we take to love, for the paths are many and dark, and we are ardent and cruel in our journey. ― Leonard Cohen, Leonard Cohen: Poems and Songs. (Everyman Paperback Classics; First Edition edition, March 1, 2011)
You were born in a city of thunder, thunder contained By dark walls, thunder trapped within dark flowers, a place of bruised silences Where you thought you could be excellent and immortal Until tomorrow. — Gwendolyn MacEwen, from “The Music,” Afterworlds. (McClelland and Stewart; 1st edition, 1987)
Lost Things There are many ways to understand the word lost, my love. When you were born, the last Pyrenean ibex, a tawny female named Celia, had not yet lived to see the view from Torla overlooking Monte Perdido, but her great- grandsire stood on the cliffs of Ordesa, positioned on hoof-tips dainty as dimes,… Continue reading Paul Vermeersch
The ethics of plagiarism have turned into the narcissism of small differences: because journalism cannot own up to its heavily derivative nature, it must enforce originality on the level of the sentence. ― Malcolm Gladwell, What the Dog Saw and Other Adventures. (Little, Brown and Company; Large Print edition, October 20, 2009)