Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue? Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)— Though some savants make earth include the sky; And blue so far above us comes so… Continue reading Robert Frost
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.
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. Advertisements
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. Advertisements
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