January 2012
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We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.
William Butler Yeats
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“Never did I speak with her either about love or about death
only blind taste and mute touch used to run between us when absorbed in ourselves we lay close”
From Silk of a Soul, Zbigniew Herbert
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“What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the...
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“What is meant by “reality”? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable—now to be found in a dusty road, now in a scrap of newspaper in the street, now a daffodil in the sun. It lights up a group in a room and stamps some casual saying. It overwhelms one walking home beneath the stars and makes the silent world more real than the world of speech—and then there it is again in...
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…from Eternity And A Day.
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The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.
Edith Wharton
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Silence may be as variously shaded as speech.
Edith Wharton
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“Everything is more beautiful Because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”
Homer, “The Iliad”
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At last, my love has come along My lonely days...
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“Words. Words. I play with words, hoping that some combination, even a chance combination, will say what I want. Perhaps better with music? But music attacks my inner ear like an antagonist, it’s not my world. The fact is, the real experience can’t be described. I think, bitterly, that a row of asterisks, like an old-fashioned novel, might be better. Or a symbol of some...
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Whether you are right or wrong Someone to open...
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Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality. James Joyce
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But I will make you see, that you belong to me...
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“Grey, grey…there is no light at all, and the autumn air is cold with the coldness of traceless spaces. Out of the grey sea creeps the ghastly, drowned body of Night. Her long dark hair swam among the branches of the pine trees, her dead body walks along the little mauve ribbon of an asphalt path. She stretches out her arms and the autumn world sinks into that frozen embrace, pillows its...
