I don’t remember words, conversations or where we’d go, if we went anywhere. I do recall your missing smile and imagine that it is still on the loose. You may never find it, though I have suspicions you are keeping it bound in a box behind the sofa […] Maybe you even look at it,… Continue reading E.V. Noechel
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal. ― T.S. Eliot, The Sacred Wood. (Faber & Faber, April 1, 1997) Originally published November 4th 1920.
Alone, very alone on a line — a line of poetry. — Jacques Derrida, Schibboleth: pour Paul Cela. (Editions Galilée, 1986)
…the book creates meaning, the meaning creates life. ― Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text. (Hill andWang; Reissue edition, January 1, 1975)
Angel and muse come from without; the angel gives radiance, the muse gives precepts … On the other hand, the duende has to be roused in the very cells of the blood. — Federico García Lorca, from “Theory and Function of the Duende,” trans. J. L. Gilli, 1933, Toward the Open Field: Poets on the… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, from “A Defence of Poetry,” 1820, Toward the Open Field: Poets on the Art of Poetry 1800-1950, ed. Melissa Kwasny (Wesleyan University Press, 2004)
But beauty is not the only thing that makes a woman attractive; indeed, great beauty is often somewhat chilling: you admire, but are not moved. ― W. Somerset Maugham, Ten Novels and Their Authors. (Vintage; New Ed edition 2001) Originally published 1948.