Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember. ― Joan Didion, Blue Nights. (Knopf; First Edition edition November 1, 2011)
Poetry remakes and prolongs language; every poetic language begins by being a secret language, that is, the creation of a personal universe, of a completely closed world. The purest poetic act seems to re-create language from an inner experience that … reveals the essence of things. — Mircea Eliade, Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. (Princeton… Continue reading Mircea Eliade
The dying sun will glow on you without burning, as it has done today. The wind will be soft and mellow and your hilltop will tremble. As you reach the end of your dance you will look at the sun, for you will never see it again in waking or in dreaming, and then your… Continue reading Carlos Castaneda
We are not idealized wild things. We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one… Continue reading Joan Didion
Modern anxiety is expressed in the longing for what most people fear, even as modern grief is expressed in the unconsummated mourning for what they never really had. ― Joseph Roach, It. (University of Michigan Press April 12, 2007)
One thing I know about death is that it touches my psyche and mumbles in her magnificently unknown words; it floats within me and wanders through my bones every day. — Anne Sexton, Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters. Edited by Lois Ames. (Mariner Books October 1, 2004) Originally published January 1st 1977.
Someday it all comes. — Joan Didion, “On Keeping a Notebook,” Slouching Towards Bethlehem. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux October 1, 1990) Originally published 1968.