Flight from reality. Farther still: flight from fantasy. Farther than anything: flight from oneself, flight from flight, exile without water or words, the voluntary loss of love and memory, — Carlos Drummond de Andrade, from “Lesser Life,” Multitudinous Heart: Selected Poems, transl. by Richard Zenith (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015) Advertisements
My heart is spilled open; words refuse to bounce and settle. No writing. Everything disappears but the feel of utter equilibrium between fractured echoes. I dig for a name under the shadow of this feeling; the intention is sparkling but I am incapable of disturbing the silence. I am at peace and I wonder not… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
Life must go on; I forget just why. — Edna St. Vincent Millay, from “Lament,” Early Poems. (Penguin Classics; Reprint edition, December 1, 1998)
…I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire…I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even… Continue reading William Faulkner
The darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life. — Sylvia Plath, from “Three Women,” The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath. Edited by Ted Hughes (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Reprint edition, September 2, 2008) Originally published 1981.
If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing. ― Samuel Beckett, Molloy. (Grove Press, January 12, 1994) Originally published 1951.
A time comes when death doesn’t help. A time comes when life is an order. Just life, without any escapes. — Carlos Drummond de Andrade, “Your Shoulders Hold Up the World,” The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (translated by Mark Strand)