The Sphinx In a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting gloom. Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she does not stir For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that reel. Red follows… Continue reading Oscar Wilde
But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope. ― George Eliot, Middlemarch. (Signet 2004) Originally published 1871.
The artistic life is a long, lovely suicide. — Oscar Wilde
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, from “A Defence of Poetry,” 1820, Toward the Open Field: Poets on the Art of Poetry 1800-1950, ed. Melissa Kwasny (Wesleyan University Press, 2004)
You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled! ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights. (Thomas Cautley Newby December 1847)
Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power. — Oscar Wilde
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory— Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the belovèd’s bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Music when Soft Voices Die… Continue reading Percy Bysshe Shelley