Be like the bird, who Halting in his flight On limb too slight Feels it give way beneath him, Yet sings Knowing he hath wings. — Victor Hugo, “The Bird,” Twilight Songs (Les Chants du crépuscule), published in 1835. Advertisements
The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. — Paul Celan, from “The Meridian,” Paul Celan: Selections. (University of California Press; 1st edition, March 14, 2005)
I have dreamed so much of you, Walked so often, talked so often with you, Loved your shadow so much. Nothing is left me of you. Nothing is left of me but a shadow among shadows, A being a hundred times more shadowy than a shadow, A shadowy being who comes, and comes again, in… Continue reading Robert Desnos
Love or hatred calls for self-surrender. He cuts a fine figure, the warm-blooded, prosperous man, solidly entrenched in his well-being, who one fine day surrenders all to love—or to hatred; himself, his house, his land, his memories. ― Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit and Three Other Plays. (Vintage; Reissue edition, October 23, 1989) Originally published 1947.
We try to discover in things, which become precious to us on that account, the reflection of what our soul has projected on to them; we are disillusioned when we find that they are in reality devoid of the charm which they owed, in our minds, to the association of certain ideas; sometimes we mobilise… Continue reading Marcel Proust
So many constellations that are held out to us. I was, when I looked at you — when? — outside by the other worlds. O these ways, galactic. O this hour, that weighed nights over for us into the burden of our names. It is, I know, not true that we lived, there moved, blindly,… Continue reading Paul Celan
I would listen to my heartbeat. I couldn’t imagine that this sound which had been with me for so long could ever stop. — Albert Camus, The Stranger. (Vintage, March 13, 1989) Originally published 1942.