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. Advertisements
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
I write, I extend my hand; without my knowing it, this is already a prayer, I extend my hand to you so that you will exist because you do exist, beyond my fingers, your fingers, without my knowing it this is already a response, already I draw to my side the site for you, with… Continue reading Hélène Cixous
The strangeness of Time. Not in its passing, which can seem infinite, like a tunnel whose end you can’t see, whose beginning you’ve forgotten, but in the sudden realization that something finite, has passed, and is irretrievable. — Joyce Carol Oates, Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang (Dutton, 1993)
It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight. — Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Stories. (Dover Publications; Unabridged edition, 1997) Originally published 1892.
Sonnet IV I know I am but summer to your heart, And not the full four seasons of the year; And you must welcome from another part Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear. No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing; And I have… Continue reading Edna St. Vincent Millay
I know I am but summer to your heart / And not the full four seasons of the year. ― Edna St. Vincent Millay, from “Sonnet IV,” The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, July 26, 2004) Originally published 1920.