. . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate, a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts. — Vladimir Nabokov Advertisements
Author’s Prayer If I speak for the dead, I must leave this animal of my body, I must write the same poem over and over for the empty page is a white flag of their surrender. If I speak of them, I must walk on the edge of myself, I must live as a blind… Continue reading Ilya Kaminsky
By the way, do you know the joys of being alone, walking alone, lying in the sun alone? Which doesn’t mean I have anything against doing things in twos, and not much against doing them in threes. But what a joy it is for the tormented, for heart and head! Do you know what I… Continue reading Franz Kafka
Closing the book, I find I have left my head inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound, words adjusting themselves to their meaning. Long passages open at successive pages. An echo, continuous from the title onward, hums behind me. From in here the world… Continue reading William Stafford
Naturally I have zero friends. I’ve built a wall around me, never letting anybody inside and trying not to venture outside myself. […] Sometimes the wall I’ve erected around me comes crumbling down. It doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes, before I even realize what’s going on, there I am—naked and defenseless and totally confused.… Continue reading Haruki Murakami
No permanence is ours; we are a wave That flows to fit whatever form it finds: Through day or night, cathedral or the cave We pass forever, craving form that binds. – Hermann Hesse, from “Lament,” The Glass Bead Game: A Novel. (Picador; First edition, December 6, 2002) Originally published 1943.
The moon likes secrets. And secret things. She lets mysteries bleed into her shadows and leaves us to ask whether they originated from otherworlds, or from our own imaginations. — Charles de Lint