She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? — William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene IV… Continue reading William Shakespeare
And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say “This is the worst.” ― William Shakespeare, King Lear: Act IV, Scene ii
Love or hatred calls for self-surrender. He cuts a fine figure, the warm-blooded, prosperous man, solidly entrenched in his well-being, who one fine day surrenders all to love—or to hatred; himself, his house, his land, his memories. ― Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit and Three Other Plays. (Vintage; Reissue edition, October 23, 1989) Originally published 1947.
I love you; but far beyond you! I’ve run so far that I have to look at the sea just to recall the trembling of your lips. — Federico García Lorca, from “Once Five Years Pass,” Once Five Years Pass And Other Dramatic Works (Station Hill Press, 1989)
You can compose poetry in whatever form you like. If it seems a seventeenth-centruy habit to begin lines with capital letters, you can go in for the liquid transitions of greater simplicity; and so on. It is not that nobody cares. It matters immensely. The slightest sound matters. The most momentary rhythm matters. You can… Continue reading Wallace Stevens
It is necessary to any originality to have the courage to be an amateur. ― Wallace Stevens, Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose. (intage; Revised edition, February 19, 1990) Originally published 1957.
Oh, Ophelia, if only there was someone out there who loved you. — William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III Scene I