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Wislawa Szymborska

Poetry– but what sort of thing is poetry? More than one shaky answer has been given to this question. But I do not know and do not know and clutch on to it, as to a saving bannister. — Wislawa Szymborska, from “Some Like Poetry,” The New Yorker: October 21, 1996 Issue. Advertisements

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Jorge Luis Borges

When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation. ― Jorge Luis Borges [As attributed by Alastair Reid in “Neruda and Borges,” The New Yorker, June 24, 1996; as well as in “The Talk of the Town,” The New Yorker, July 7, 1986]

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Robert Pinsky

Genesis According to George Segal The Spirit brooded on the water and made     The earth, and molded us out of earth. And then     The Spirit breathed Itself into our nostrils— And rested. What was the Spirit waiting for?     An image of Its nature, a looking glass?     Glass also made of dust,… Continue reading Robert Pinsky

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David Foster Wallace

We’re all terribly, terribly lonely. And there’s a way, at least in prose fiction, that can allow you to be intimate with the world and with a mind and with characters that you just can’t be in the real world. — David Foster Wallace, Whiskey Island, Spring, 1993.

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Primo Levi

And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions, facing blind, deaf stone alone, with nothing to help you but your own hands and your own… Continue reading Primo Levi

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E. E. Cummings

little tree little silent Christmas tree you are so little you are more like a flower who found you in the green forest and were you very sorry to come away? see          i will comfort you because you smell so sweetly i will kiss your cool bark and hug you safe and tight just as… Continue reading E. E. Cummings

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