I hate solitude, but I am afraid of intimacy. The substance of my life is a private conversation with myself which to turn into a dialogue would be equivalent to self-destruction. — Iris Murdoch, Under the Net. (Chatto & Windus 1954)
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go. ― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot. (Grove Press; 1 edition, May 17, 2011) Originally published 1952. Premiered 5 January 1953 at theThéâtre de Babylone, Paris France.
But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. — James Joyce, from “Araby,” Dubliners. (Grant Richards Ltd., London June 1914)
saying again if you do not teach me I shall not learn saying again there is a last even of last times last times of begging last times of loving of knowing not knowing pretending a last even of last times of saying if you do not love me I shall not be loved if… Continue reading Samuel Beckett
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown by a woman’s gaze And by the unlabouring brood of the skies: And therefore my heart will bow, when dew Is dropping sleep, until God burn time, Before the unlabouring stars and you. — W.B. Yeats,… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
I AM worn out with dreams; A weather-worn, marble triton Among the streams; And all day long I look Upon this lady’s beauty As though I had found in book A pictured beauty, Pleased to have filled the eyes Or the discerning ears, Delighted to be but wise, For men improve with the years; And… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
You see things; you say, ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were; and I say ‘Why not? ― George Bernard Shaw, Back to Methuselah. (BiblioBazaar, January 30, 2007) Originally published 1921.