Let go, live your life,
the grave has no sunny corners –

—Charles Wright, from “High Country Canticle” in Scar Tissue: Poems (via)

(Source: litverve)

What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.

—Anais Nin (via oofpoetry)

(via requiemforthepast)


I dream a lot. I do more painting when I’m not painting. It’s in the subconscious.
Andrew Wyeth


I dream a lot. I do more painting when I’m not painting. It’s in the subconscious.

Andrew Wyeth

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

—William Blake, Auguries of Innocence (via wordsnquotes)

(via distancenouveau)

Losing hope is not so bad. There’s something worse: losing hope and hiding it from yourself.

Walker Percy, The Moviegoer (via bookmania)

The only difference between me and you is that you think that purity and life can only come from eating the body and drinking the blood of Christ. I don’t know where it comes from.

Walker Percy, The Last Gentleman (via enfuite)

Before, I wandered as a diversion. Now I wander seriously and sit and read as a diversion.

—Walker Percy | The Moviegoer (via astrangerhere)



by Patricia Kirkpatrick

for JS

I drove through Sacred Heart and Montevideo,
over the Chippewa River, all the way to Madison.
When I stopped, walked into grass—
bluestem, wild rose, a monarch—
I was afraid at first. Birds I couldn’t identify
might have been bobolinks,

How I’ve changed may not be apparent.
I limp. Read and write, make tea at the stove
as I practiced in rehab. Sometimes, like fire,
a task overwhelms me. I cry for days, shriek
when the phone rings. Like a page pulled from flame,
I’m singed but intact: I don’t burn down the house.

Later, cleared to drive, I did outpatient rehab. Others
lost legs or clutched withered minds in their hands.
A man who can’t speak recognized me
and held up his finger. I knew he meant
One year since your surgery. Sixteen since his.
Guadalupe wishes daily to be the one before. Nobody
is that. Sometimes, like love, the neurons just cross fire.
You don’t get everything back.

Survivor’s Guilt, by Patricia Kirkpatrick. (via pasunepomme)


The book opens with two images, the first of a rocky wasteland (Fig.1) and the second a picture of Korean graffiti carved into the walls of a tunnel in Japan by Korean slave labourers during World War II (Fig.2). The graffiti reads, “I miss my mother. I’m hungry. I want to go to my hometown/homeland.”

- Stephen Joyce on Theresa Hak Kyung Cha’s Dictee


May I write words more naked than flesh,
stronger than bone, more resilient than
sinew, sensitive than nerve.

—Theresa Hak Kyung Cha via Sappho (via animus-inviolabilis)