August 2011
July 2011
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“For pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness...”
– Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via rimbonmeth)
“Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be awake when...”
– Katherine Mansfield, “At the Bay,” in The Garden Party, 1922 (via proustitute)
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Telephone by Marzanna Kielar
you were burning dry branches and weeds – I heard fire rustle in the receiver, your whistle when the dogs once again tried to get at the mole-hills where yesterday we picked plums from among the rampant grass; evening drew near – the wind blew breath into its puppy muzzle. The sticky prunes, we ate them for supper. I was leafing through a book on water gardens, photographs of marsh plants – I...
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“It was like days when the rain came out of yellow skies that melted just before...”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned
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“[…] and I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into...”
– Virginia Woolf,A Sketch Of The Past. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
The Bell Jar turns 40 →
In March 1970, the poet Ted Hughes found himself in a tricky real estate situation. There was a charming seaside house he wanted to buy, in Devonshire, but the necessary funds weren’t at hand. Of course he could have sold one of his two other homes, but one was the home he had shared with his now deceased ex-wife Sylvia Plath, another was a solid investment, and so on. In the end, he wrote...
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“I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a single...”
– Mahmoud Darwish, from “I Belong There,” trans. Carolyn Forché and Munir Akash (via proustitute)
“your soul breaks inside you,
two bells of bone sound,
and nothing happens but...”
– Pablo Neruda, from “Physics” (translated by William O’Daly)
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Stormy Weather : Happy Deathday Ms. Welty!
deadwriters:
Hello there, dear readers!
Over the weekend we had some stormy weather and our lines were down! So… we’re playing a bit of catch-up today!
On July 23rd, in 2001, 6-time winner of the O. Henry Award for Short Stories, National Medal for Literature and A1969 Pulitzer Prize winner Eudora Welty died in her Mississippi home at the age of 92.
Welty is ...
“Write, I say to myself, hate those
who gently lead into nothingness
the men...”
– Franco Fortini, from “Translating Brecht,” trans. Michael Hamburger (via wood s lot)
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“I also painted a study of a seascape, nothing but a bit of sand, sea, sky, grey...”
– Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to his brother Theo, 17 September 1882 (source)
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“For me, the word writing is the exact opposite of the word waiting. Instead of...”
– Roberto Bolaño, from a 2002 interview in BOMB, trans. Margaret Carson (via proustitute)
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“To watch the season through, to lose myself in love of the earth - that is Life...”
– Katherine Mansfield, 1921 (via katherine-mansfield)
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“A life is such a strange object, at one moment translucent, at another utterly...”
– Simone de Beauvoir (via petitefeministe)
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Anna Akhmatova according to the research of Amanda Haight:
She was extremely thin and frequently ill. She would get up from bed to go and stand, sometimes in freezing weather, in the long lines of people waiting outside the prisons, hoping against hope to be able to see her son or at least pass over a parcel… . The poems of “Requiem,” composed at this time, were learnt by heart by Lidiya ...
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“There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That...”
– Philip Larkin, “Going” (via sharingpoetry and lademarche)
“There is so much to do and I do so little. Life would be almost perfect here if...”
– Katherine Mansfield, from her Notebooks (via katherine-mansfield)
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“But I do adore you - every part of you from heel to hair. Never will you shake...”
– Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville West,1928. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
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“She strung the afternoon on the necklace of memorable days, which was not too...”
– Virginia Woolf,Moments Of Being. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
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“Stay with us one more Birthday, Ned — ‘Yesterday, Today, and Forever,’ then we will let you go.” — Emily Dickinson, from a letter to her nephew, Ned, 19 June 1883 - Marc Chagall, Birthday, 1915 (via) - “My birthday began with the water — Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name Above the farms and the white horses And I rose In rainy autumn...
“morning;
in my bowl
green light.
sky burns
turns through
blue silence....”
– Stef Pixner, “Morning” (via sharingpoetry and lademarche)
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“[…] as she talked and caught his eyes and turned her lovely head, she...”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned
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“She felt herself transfixed by the intensity of her perception; but how did one...”
– Virginia Woolf,To The Lighthouse. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
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“I wish you could live in my brain for a week. It is washed with the most violent...”
– Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville West,1926. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
“You’re like a witness. You’re the one who goes to the museum and looks at the paintings. I mean the paintings are there and you’re in the museum too, near and far away at the same time. I’m a painting. Rocamadour is a painting. Etienne is a painting, this room is a painting. You think that you’re in the room but you’re not. You’re looking at the room, you’re not in the room.” — Julio Cortázar...
“If I fall on my knees, if I go through the ritual, the ancient antics, it’s you,...”
– Virginia Woolf, “An Unwritten Novel,” 1920 (via the-final-sentence)
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“In two days it will be my birthday
and as always the earth is done with its...”
– Anne Sexton, from “Menstruation at Forty”
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“The jade slipped from my wrist
with the smoothness of water
leaving the...”
– Cathy Song, “Spaces We Leave Empty”
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“A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of darkness the...”
– Katherine Mansfield, Selected Stories, ‘At the Bay’ (via charlottecollection)
Dorianne Laux, "What's Broken"
The slate black sky. The middle step of the back porch. And long ago my mother’s necklace, the beads rolling north and south. Broken the rose stem, water into drops, glass knobs on the bedroom door. Last summer’s pot of parsley and mint, white roots shooting like streamers through the cracks. Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath, the car hood’s rusted latch. Broken little finger on my right...
Sharing Poetry →
I am honored to now be a member of Sharing Poetry, a wonderful tumblr created by proustitute. It is a place where poetry-lovers can submit their favorite poems and also be exposed to a wide variety of poets. I’m thrilled to be part of this project and encourage those of you who love poetry to follow and start submitting some great poems!
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“I have no brothers now. I have no sisters.
In every nest, winter has played...”
– Else Lasker-Schuler, from “Over Glistening Gravel” (translated by Eavan Boland)
“I write.”
– Marguerite Duras, The War, trans. Barbara Bray (via the-final-sentence)
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“I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can.”
– Jack Gilbert (via sacraments)
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“Evening. By the sea. Lying thus on the sand, the foam almost washing over my...”
– Katherine Mansfield, 1908, from her Notebooks (via katherine-mansfield)
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“I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did...”
– Willa Cather, My Antonia 