I simply love that tinge of Botticellian pink, that raw rose about the lips, those wet, matted eyelashes… — Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita. (Olympia Press 1955)
I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita. —Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita. (Olympia Press 1955)
I wrote on the wind The name of my love. I wrote it on the water. I did not know That the wind rushes by without listening, That names dissolve in the water. — Nizar Qabbani, from “The Book of Love,” On Entering the Sea: The Erotic and Other Poetry of Nizar Qabbani (Interlink Pub… Continue reading Nizar Qabbani
She rises up out of a sea of faces and embraces me, embraces me passionately— a thousand eyes, noses, fingers, legs, bottles, windows, purses, saucers all glaring at us and we in each other’s arm oblivious. I sit down beside her and she talks— a flood of talk. Wild consumptive notes of hysteria, perversion, leprosy.… Continue reading Henry Miller
Night is longing, longing, longing, beyond all endurance. — Henry Miller, Sexus. (The Rosy Crucifixion #1). Grove Press January 12, 1994) Originally published 1949.
What I want is to open up. I want to know what’s inside me. I want everybody to open up. I’m like an imbecile with a can opener in his hand, wondering where to begin– to open up the earth. I know that underneath the mess everything is marvelous. I’m sure of it. — Henry… Continue reading Henry Miller
Words are loneliness. I left a couple of words for you on the tablecloth last night—you covered them with your elbows. ― Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer (Grove Press, 1934)