Hell is a different place for each man, or each man has his own particular hell. My descent into the inferno is a descent into the irrational level of existence, where the instincts and blind emotions are loose, where one lives by pure impulse, pure fantasy, and therefore pure madness. No, that is not the… Continue reading Anaïs Nin
Where Once the Waters of your Face Where once the waters of your face Spun to my screws, your dry ghost blows, The dead turns up its eye; Where once the mermen through your ice Pushed up their hair, the dry wind steers Through salt and root and roe. Where once your green knots sank… Continue reading Dylan Thomas
I recalled my father-in-law’s aphorism ‘To fool a judge, feign fascination, but to bamboozle the whole court, feign boredom…’ & I pretended to extract a speck from my eye. ― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas. (Sceptre 2004)
…later beneath the blueness of trees the future falls out of place: something always happens: draw nearer my dear: never fear: the world spins nightly toward its brightness and we are on it. — C.D. Wright, from “Cresent,” Steal Away: Selected and New Poems. (Copper Canyon Press September 1, 2003)
I have the gift of desiring, of inventing more and more desires, of never knowing satiation and dullness. And I am cursed with the lack of genius for renunciation. — Anaïs Nin, Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin (1914-1920) (Mariner Books; 1st Harvest/HBJ Ed edition March 10, 1980) Originally published 1978.
But you were young, and you had Plenty of time: Going west, You slept on the train and did not smile. Under you the plains widened, and turned silver. You slept with your mouth open. You were nothing, You were snow falling through the ribs Of the dead. You were all I had. Larry Lewis,… Continue reading Larry Lewis
…But remember that you have to move on, somehow. You just pick your head up and stare at something beautiful like the sky or the ocean, and you move the hell on. — James Patterson, Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas. (Vision; 1st US MM Ppbk Print, Aug. 2003 edition August 1, 2003)
She thinks of him lying there, the beautiful moment never arriving, never ruined, never disappointing, over. It must be sublime dwelling in that house of longing, forever poised on desire’s trembling tip, before everything is wrecked. — Susan Johnson, My Hundred Lovers. (Allen & Unwin June 2012)
I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away! ― Walter Scott, Ivanhoe. (Penguin Classics; Reprint edition October 1, 2000) Originally published 1819.
It was one of those humid days when the atmosphere gets confused. Sitting on the porch, you could feel it: the air wishing it was water. — Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex. (Picador September 16, 2002)