Sunday, October 30, 2011

Undisneyed princesses

Every little girl knows about love. It is only her capacity to suffer because of it that increases.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Why We Write

Over the years I've come to realize that my greatest fear in life is a dread of a certain kind of solitude, of abandonment. And I've come to know that by writing I'm creating a presence which fills that solitude. . .

Monday, October 24, 2011

"Just Say Youre Not Into It"

&HEARTS,
they don't lie -- they just quiver in fear...

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Tired

Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Her

I see her not dispirited, not weak, but well, remembering that she has seen dark times before, indeed with a kind of instinct that she sees a little better in a cloudy day.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Oh, Henry

Our duty is to be useful, not according to our desires, but according to our powers.

Saturday, October 08, 2011

Statements of Faith

I once believed [Stéphane] Mallarmé's statement that within him was that which would count the buttons on a hangman's vest was a claim to cold-blooded objectivity. Now I believe it was an acceptance of a world where the trivial and definite can vie for attention with the emotionally overwhelming.

Is Mallarmé's nothing so much different from the man who, after surviving a terrible auto crash and with his wife lying bloody in the car, steps out and begins to pick up small bits of glass? Are words bits of glass? Buttons on a hangman's vest? On a lover's clothes?

Should you reject yourself because you count buttons and pick up glass when all civilization tells you: please, this is hardly the time?

An act of imagination is an act of self-acceptance.

Thursday, October 06, 2011

The cup of life

is sweetness at the brim --
the flavor is impaired as we drink deeper,
and the dregs are made bitter that we may not struggle when it is taken from our lips.

Wednesday, October 05, 2011

Telescope Messenger

As love is never perfect, a cockney prefixing
an "h" to his "eight" seems to say truly,
"Even in 'I love you,' there are hate letters."