He sits down at the table; people in exile write so many letters. Now Ovid is weeping. Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing. — Anne Carson, from “On Ovid,” Plainwater: Essays and Poetry. (Vintage; Reprint edition, March 28, 2000) Originally published 1995. Advertisements
To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived, is itself delightful, a suspended moment of living hope. — Anne Carson, Eros: The Bittersweet. (Dalkey Archive Press; 1st Dalkey Archive ed edition, March 1, 1998) Originally published 1986.
The ocean reminds me of your green room. There are things unbearable. Scorn, princes, this little size of dying. My personal poetry is a failure. I do not want to be a person. I want to be unbearable. Lover to lover, the greenness of love. Cool, cooling. — Anne… Continue reading Anne Carson
To live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing. — Anne Carson, review and excerpt of Red Doc> (Alfred A. Knopf, 2013) Bodega Broadside No. 1, February 2013
Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is to watch the year repeat its days. It is as if I could dip my hand down into time and scoop up blue and green lozenges of April heat a year ago in another country. — Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay,” Glass, Irony, and God.… Continue reading Anne Carson
My mother forbade us to walk backwards. That is how the dead walk, she would say. Where did she get this idea? Perhaps from a bad translation. The dead, after all, do not walk backwards but they do walk behind us. They have no lungs and cannot call out but would love for us to… Continue reading Anne Carson
There is something maddeningly attractive about the untranslatable, about a word that goes silent in transit. — Anne Carson, from “Variations on the Right to Remain Silent.” A Public Space, Issue 7 / 2008.