For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the inkpot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing. — Virginia Woolf, Orlando. (Penguin Classic; Abridged edition, October 3, 2000) Originally published October 11th… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
Softer than rainfall at twilight, Bringing the fields benediction And the hills quiet and greyness, Are my long thoughts of thee. — Sappho, from “LXVII: Indoors the fire is kindled,” Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics by Bliss Carmen (L.C. Page, 1904)
I often feel like I want to think something but I can’t find the language that coincides with the thoughts, so it remains felt, not thought. — Peter Cameron, Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You; A Novel (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)
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.
…we grope through languages and hesitate and touch each other, speechless and amazed; and every day our bodies separate us farther from our planned, deliberate ironic lives. — Marilyn Hacker, Love, Death, And The Changing Of The Seasons. (W. W. Norton & Company; Reprint edition, March 17, 1995)
Somewhere along the fault line lays the preposterous idea that I forgive myself. — Tara Hardy, from “Along the Fault Line,” Bring Down the Chandeliers. (Write Bloody Publishing, April 22, 2014)
Listen, there was a day before you were yourself. There will be a day after. This is what is called eternity. It’s the only thing we get to keep forever. — Tara Hardy, from “Day Before You Were Yourself,” My, My, My, My, My. (Write Bloody Publishing, November 15, 2016)