Forgotten things grasped at things to be forgotten… — Paul Celan, from “Pain, the Syllable,” Paul Celan: Glottal Stop, 101 Poems, translated by Nikolai Popov and Heather McHugh (Hanover and London: WesleyanUniversity Press, 2000).
Here, the walls are made of moon and stars, and each breath is mingled with tender coolness like a shiver from lips to lips. — Pauline Albanese, The Closed Doors. (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform; 1 edition October 3, 2015)
Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it’s me? — Samuel Beckett, Stories and Texts for Nothing. (Grove Press; First Printing edition, January 13, 1994) Originally published January 1st 1974.
One evening, I sat Beauty in my lap. — And I found her bitter. — And I reviled her. — Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell: Prologue. Originally published in 1873 by French writer Arthur Rimbaud. It is the only work that was published by Rimbaud himself.
I am the wound and the knife! I am the slap and the cheek! I am the limbs and the rack, And the victim and the executioner! I am the vampire of my own heart. — Charles Baudelaire, from “The Self-Tormentor,” Fleurs du mal / Flowers of Evil. (Published by Auguste Poulet-Malassis 1857)
It has become necessary for me to have this woman, so as to save myself from the ridicule of being in love with her: for to what lengths will a man not be driven by thwarted desire? ― Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liaisons Dangereuses. (Durand Neveu March 23, 1782)
When there is love, the world is conquered by lovers. All the better for us: we are enriched by their radiance. Their happiness makes the air purer. A poem incarnate. It is beyond criticism. It defies explanation. That defiance is the nature of the poem. — Édouard Boubat, Notebooks, 1998