There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself- Infinite, green, utterly untouchable. Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also. They are my medium. — Sylvia Plath, from “Apprehensions,” The Bell Jar. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics June 11, 2013) Originally published January 14th 1963.
Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor. – James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (Penguin Classics;… Continue reading James Joyce
I love you, rotten, Delicious rottenness. …wonderful are the hellish experiences, Orphic, delicate Dionysos of the Underworld. ― D. H. Lawrence, from “Medlars and Sorb-Apples,” Birds Beasts and Flowers. (Penguin Uk, July 29, 1999) Originally published 1923.
What is left after this? what can death loose in me after your embrace? your touch, your limbs are more terrible to do me hurt. What can death mar in me that you have not? — H. D., from “Fragment 68,” Selected Poems. (New Directions; 9.1.1988 edition, September 17, 1988)
I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? — James Joyce, Ulysses. (Sylvia Beach 2 February 1922)
Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. — W. B. Yeats
Better that every fiber crack and fury make head, blood drenching vivid couch, carpet, floor and the snake-figured almanac vouching you are a million green counties from here, than to sit mute, twitching so under prickling stars, with stare, with curse blackening the time goodbyes were said, trains let go, and I, great magnanimous fool,… Continue reading Sylvia Plath