If life were merely a habit, I should commit suicide; but even now, more or less desperate, I cannot but think, ‘Something wonderful may happen.’ It is not optimism, it is a rejection of self-pity (I hope) which leaves a loophole for life… I merely choose to remain living out of respect for possibility. And… Continue reading Frank O’Hara
All summer they are red and pink and white tents of softness and nectar, which wafts and hangs everywhere–a sweetness so palpable and excessive that, before it, I’m struck, I’m taken, I’m conquered; I’m washed into it, as though it was a river, full of dreaming and idleness–I drop to the sand, I can’t move;… Continue reading Mary Oliver
Beware thoughts that come in the night. They aren’t turned properly; they come in askew, free of sense and restriction, deriving from the most remote of sources. ― William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways. (Back Bay Books; 1st Back Bay pbk. ed edition, October 19, 1999)
We don’t forget, but something vacant settles in us. — Roland Barthes, Mourning Diary. (Hill and Wang; First Edition edition, October 12, 2010)
Carrying a day is like carrying a mountain, those endless small words men use to guard their helplessness. Put your day down. Come to the bank in the snow wearing grace and pain, the silence at the end of sentences. Breathe the snow and the sad odor of human dust. All the roads are inside… Continue reading Terrance Keena
I eat my heart out alone. — Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran. (Random House; Reprint edition, December 30, 2003)
You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.… Continue reading Ernest Hemingway
