The poem gets written. I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame. — Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays (Penguin, 2016) Advertisements
The brook will nonetheless teach you to speak, in spite of sorrows and memories. — Gaston Bachelard, Earth and Reveries of Will: An Essay on the Imagination of Matter. (Dallas Inst Humanities & Culture, September 1, 2002) Originally published 1948.
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.
The heart is forever inexperienced. — Henry David Thoreau, from “A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, 1849,” Thoreau and the Art of Life: Precepts and Principles, edited by Roderick MacIver (Huron Dance Press, 2006)
The real subject in poetry isn’t the voice. The real subject is silence. It’s like in architecture, where the medium is not really stone or metal, but space. We use materials—brick, glass, whatever— to inflect the immaterial, space. I would say that the real medium of poetry is inner space, the silence of our deepest… Continue reading Li-Young Lee
I had always been aware that the Universe is sad; everything in it, animate or inanimate, the wild creatures, the stones, the stars, was enveloped in the great sadness, pervaded by it. Existence had no use. It was without end or reason. The most beautfiul things in it, a flower or a song, as well… Continue reading Hayden Carruth
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)