Apologies to everyone, but I will be taking a temporary hiatus just to get some things together. I will resume posting ASAP
“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.” — Robert Frost
“I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I’m sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I’m sure that is entirely wrong.” — Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence (via fuckyeahliteraryquotes)
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
‘Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
‘Tis- oh, ‘tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast-
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
“Writers aren’t exactly people…. they’re a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald (via deadwriters) (via awritersruminations)
“Hard weather, says the old man. So let it be. Wrap me in the weathers of the earth, I will be hard and hard. My face will wash rain like the stones.” — Suttree (by Cormac McCarthy) (via hmack) (via awritersruminations)
“So in sum, what are we? We are the creatures who know and know too much. That leaves us with such a burden again we have no choice, to laugh or cry. No other animal does either. We do both…”
“Since now learn otherwise. Sometimes the man who looks the happiest in town, with the biggest smile, is the one carrying the biggest load of sin. There are smile and smiles; learn to tell the dark variety from the light. The seal-barker, the laugh shouter half the time he’s covering up. He’s had his fun and he’s guilty. And men do love sin, Will. Oh how they love it, never doubt, in all shapes, sizes, colours, and smells. Time comes when troughs, not tables, suit our appetites. Hear a man too loudly praising others, and look to woner if he didn’t just get up from the sty. On the other hand, that unhappy, pale, put-upon man walking by, who looks all guilt and sin, why, often that’s your good man with a capital G, Will. For being good is a fearful occupation…”
“Clocks slay time… time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.” — William Faulkner