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@catanimalia
The poetry of inspiration [...] permits poet and reader to acknowledge mystery and "evade" reality. In "inspired" poetry, the traditional metaphor yields to the hecho poético, the "poetic fact," an image which seems as inexplicable as a miracle, for it is devoid of any analogical meaning. Based on the hecho poético, and bound together by la lógica poética, the poem becomes a self-sufficient entity without reference to any reality outside itself.
Derek Harris
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"Over and over again I sail towards joy, which is never in the room with me, but always near me, across the way, like those rooms full of gayety one sees from the street, or the gayety in the street one sees from a window. Will I ever reach joy? It hides behind the turning merry-go-round of the traveling circus. As soon as I approach it, it is no longer joy. Joy is a foam, an illumination. I am poorer and hungrier for the want of it. When I am in the dance, joy is outside in the elusive garden. When I am in the garden, I hear it exploding from the house. When I am traveling, joy settles like an aurora borealis over the land I leave. When I stand on the shore I see it bloom on the flag of a departing ship. What joy? Have I not possessed it? I want the joy of simple colors, street organs, ribbons, flags, not a joy that takes my breath away and throws me into space alone where no one else can breathe with me, not the joy that comes from a lonely drunkenness. There are so many joys, but I have only known the ones that come like a miracle, touching everything with light." Anaïs Nin, 1939
Red is the sun's most beautiful throne and all the other colors worship on red rugs. Ali Ahmad Said Esber, from "Celebrating Childhood"
They shared a doom against which virtue was no defense.
Truman Capote, In Cold Blood, 1965
Imagination, of course, can open any door -- turn the key and let terror walk right in.
Truman Capote, In Cold Blood, 1965
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The most beautiful book I've ever seen. And one of the most beautiful books I've ever read.
When I leave I usually go to the station on my way home and wait for the last train to come in from Paris. There is never anyone on it I know—how could there be? Often it is completely empty. But I walk about the town at night with a sort of numbness, looking keenly about me, as if for a friend.
Lawrence Durrell, as quoted in "The Prince Returns," by J. D. Mersault. Always nice to see other Durrell fans, but especially one who can write so effectively about how wonderful he is!
Often when I imagine you, your wholeness cascades into many shapes. You run like a herd of luminous deer, and I am dark; I am forest.
Rainer Maria Rilke, from Rilke’s Book of Hours, I, 45.
(via mirroir)
Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.
Virginia Woolf, in a letter to Vita Sackville-West, 1927
I wrote myself into freedom.
bell hooks, "Are You Still a Slave?" 2014
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"Given the motionless and deathly silence that lay upon the canal now, it was difficult to imagine, said Ferber, as we gazed back at the city sinking into the twilight, that he himself, in the postwar years, had seen the most enormous freighters on this water. They would slip slowly by, and as they approached the port they passed amid houses, looming high above the black slate roofs. And in winter, said Ferber, if a ship suddenly appeared out of the mist when one least expected it, passed by soundlessly, and vanished once more in the white air, then for me, every time, it was an utterly incomprehensible spectacle which moved me deeply." W. G. Sebald, The Emigrants, 1992
Beyond a certain point there is no return. This point has to be reached.
Franz Kafka (via likeafieldmouse)
“There is reading, and then there is reading as signifier, in which we don’t lose ourselves in books themselves so much as turn them into easy, quotable advertisements for ourselves.”
Sadie Stein on the commodification of literature.
But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking!
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!
from The Drunken Boat, translated by Wallace Fowlie.
No mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.
Sigmund Freud, Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria, 1905
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Lucian Freud with his kestrel.
It is the phenomenon sometimes called 'alienation from self.' In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game.
Joan Didion, "On Self Respect," Slouching Towards Bethlehem, 1968
