He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. ― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (Penguin Classics; 1 edition, March 25, 2003) Originally published December 29th 1916. Advertisements
For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker. ― Samuel Beckett, Molloy. (Grove Press, January 12, 1994) Originally published 1951.
Weary with my weariness, white last moon, sole regret, not even. To be dead, before her, on her, with her, and turn, dead on dead, about poor mankind, and never have to die anymore, from among the living. Not even, not even that. My moon was here below, far below, the little I was able… Continue reading Samuel Becket
I’m all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, and nothing else, yes, something else, that… Continue reading Samuel Beckett
I am worn out with dreams; — W. B. Yeats, from “Men Improve with the Years,” The Wild Swans At Coole. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, June 17, 2004) Originally published 1919.
I know the old season is almost over, and I almost love my own shadow again– — Eamon Grennan, from “In Late February,” Relations: New & Selected Poems (Graywolf Press, 1998)
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; — W. B. Yeats, from “When You Are Old,” The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats. Edited by Richard J. Finneran, (Scribner,… Continue reading W. B. Yeats