Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness. Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
If there were a poetry where this could happen not as blank spaces or as words stretched like skin over meanings but as silence falls at the end of a night through which two people have talked till dawn — Adrienne Rich, from “Cartographies of Silence,” The Dream of a Common Language, Poems 1974-1977 (W.… Continue reading Adrienne Rich
… in such darkness I can only write, keep on going forward, till the end. I am now in the dark part of truth. — Hélène Cixous, from “Respiration de la hache (Hiss of the axe),” trans. Keith Cohen, Stigmata: Escaping Texts (Routledge, 2005)
i am afraid that if i open myself i will not stop pouring. (why do i fear becoming a river. what mountain gave me such shame.) — Jamie Oliveira, “Erosion,” In Passing. (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform May 9, 2015)
There is within me a thing that is aching, aching, aching always as the days pass. — Mary MacLane, I Await The Devil’s Coming. (Melville House; Reprint edition, March 19, 2013) Originally published April 26th 1902.
I am the sun and moon and forever hungry the sharpened edge where day and night shall meet and not be one. — Audre Lorde, from “From the House of Yemanjá,” The Black Unicorn: Poems. (W. W. Norton & Company; Reissue edition, August 17, 1995) Originally published 1978.
That dream, of sharing, completing, of finding in solitude on the beach an answer, was then but a reflection in a mirror, and the mirror itself was but the surface glassiness which forms in quiescence when the nobler powers sleep beneath? Impatient, despairing yet loth to go (for beauty offers her lures, has her consolations),… Continue reading Virginia Woolf