I know red and yellow, the other colors,— but the sea, det granna granna havet, that’s most dangerous to look at. What name is there for the color that arouses this thirst, which says, the saga can happen, even to you— — Edith Södergran, from “Strange Sea,” trans. Averill Curdy, Poetry (March 2012) Advertisements
the silence drinks the slow autumn rain which no longer makes anything good grow the folded hands warm each other the stiff looks fade among the live coals — Gunnar Ekelöf, from “Mirrror of October,” Friends, You Drank Some Darkness, Three Swedish Poets: Harry Martinson, Gunnar Ekelöf & Tomas Tranströmer (Beacon Press, 1975)
You withdraw into your sorrow: this, at least, is yours. — Hans Urs von Balthasar, Heart of the World. (Ignatius Press, June 1, 1980)
We are neither too late nor too early; an irremediable aspect of time Everything else is nostalgia, in either direction — Göran Sonnevi, Mozart’s Third Brain, transl. by Rika Lesser (Yale University Press, 2009)
As if nothing but the real-infinite were That beyond our comprehension was the white ocean storm, I read, formulated somewhat differently, in a passage of Kant About this I have always known Also about the dark point in the storm About the great and the small I have been at the extremes, not just in… Continue reading Göran Sonnevi
Evenings I sit in the hostel kitchen, writing, with a pot of strong tea and a candle for comfort. The immense quiet is broken only by those snaps and creaks that inhabit old houses. I am partial to old things: old peeling doors, rusty gates, overgrown paths. Old things know how to relinquish the past;… Continue reading Janice D. Soderling
Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere. ― Isabelle Eberhardt, The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt. (Interlink Pub Group; Trade Paperback Edition edition May 1, 2003) Originally published 1987.