Poetrist

Death is just the last scene of the last act. We’re in rehearsal!

Walking alone for a hundred miles, whispering French to herself because all the horror in her life had transpired in English and she thought switching languages might save her.

How without any one of these people the world is a subtly but unmistakably altered place, the dial turned just one or two degrees.

My heart wants roots My mind wants wings. I cannot bear Their bickerings.

Eternal nothingness is O.K. if you’re dressed for it.

Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets.

Welcome [...] the good writers and good poets, the non-drumbeaters and non-axe-grinders. So long as they’re good.

This is it. This is goodbye. A goodbye I wasn’t even looking for.

It’s a mystery of human chemistry and I don’t understand it, some people, as far as their senses are concerned, just feel like home.

So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall.

But, dear me, let us be elegant or die!

Stories are wild creatures. When you let them loose, who knows what havoc they might wreak?

I’m going because this life I lead here, this life—is not for me!

Where exactly do you put your hands on somebody who hurts everywhere?

But I must admit I miss you terribly. The world is too quiet without you nearby.

One doesn’t stop seeing. One doesn’t stop framing. It doesn’t turn off and turn on. It’s on all the time.

You have five minutes to wallow in the delicious misery. Enjoy it. Embrace it. Discard it. Then proceed.