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] Advertisements
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
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.
Soar, eat ether, see what has never been seen; depart, be lost, But climb. — Edna St. Vincent Millay, from “One Thought in Harness,” Saturday Evening Post;2/24/1934, Vol. 206 Issue 35, p23.
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
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
At night, in the fish-light of the moon, the dead wear our white shirts To stay warm, and litter the fields. We pick them up in the mornings, dewy pieces of paper and scraps of cloth. Like us, they refract themselves. Like us, They keep on saying the same thing, trying to get it right.… Continue reading Charles Wright