lit quotes

Even my ugliness I could not quite believe in. Who can feel ugly when the heart meets delight? It is as if, somewhere inside, within the hideous face and bony limbs, one is soft, fresh, lissom, and desirable.

“To love, and to lose what we love, are equally things appointed for our nature. If we cannot bear the second well, that evil is ours.”

Poems require this daily input of incomplete knowledge, as if you were sewing time into the fabric of your work. The poetic mind has an unusual tolerance for living in this painful gap between the ideal and the botched reproduction. Far from being wimps, poets simply spend more time than the rest of the population in this hazardous landscape.

Poetry has acquired a fluffy image that is totally at odds with its real nature. It’s not pastel colors, but blood red and black. If you don’t obey it as a force in your life, it will tear you to pieces. The Furies are the creative processes’ revenge if you refuse to embody them. This rejection is more than creative sabotage, it’s impiety. The gods

If you’re a poet, writing isn’t an optional extra in your life; it’s a fundamental part of your creative economy. For me, poetry represents the minimum amount of reality that I require in order to live well. Any lies in my thinking, any self-indulgence simply won’t scan, and I have to abandon those ideas of victimhood and move on to thoughts that

“I would have done it myself, if I could have. My sacrifice was evidently not deemed acceptable.” Bitterness tinged her voice.

“It was not a matter of—that’s not the reason,” protested Cazaril. “Well, it is but it isn’t. It has to do with the shape of your soul, not its worthiness. You have to make a cup of yourself, to receive that pouring out. You

“You were the soberest fellow I ever met, and now you grin all the time. Caz, are you sure She got your soul back in right way round?”

Cazaril laughed out loud. “Maybe not! You know how it is when you travel. You pack all your things in your saddlebags, and by the journey’s end, they seem to have doubled in volume and are hanging out every which

“Oh, it is a great infection of poetry, a contagion of hymns. The gods delight in poets, you know. Songs and poetry, being of the same stuff as souls, can cross into their world almost unimpeded.”

“People compliment birds for being great builders, but really, these two seem terribly clumsy. Perhaps they are young birds, and this is their first try. Persistent, though. Although I suppose if I was to attempt to build a hut using only my mouth, I would do no better. I should write a poem in praise of birds. If matter that gets up and walk