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I’m angry with the angel Who pinched me on the thigh And made me fall in love With every woman passing by

Leonard Cohen • Book of Longing

Max Once Max noticed her, the only truth was Max’s truth. At Gilbert’s every morning at seven, the phone would ring. It would be Max. The first time this happened, Gilbert talked for a whole hour, laughing away throughout.

Eve Babitz • Sex and Rage: A Novel

We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty.

Oscar Wilde • The Picture of Dorian Gray

And all the time, and all the time, my love, 950 You too are there, beneath the word, above The syllable, to underscore and stress The vital rhythm. One heard a woman’s dress Rustle in days of yore. I’ve often caught The sound and sense of your approaching thought. And all in you is youth, and you make new, By quoting them, old things I made for yo

Vladimir Nabokov • Pale Fire (Vintage International)

Why do we read and write poetry? (Dead Poets Society)

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A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning. The city is like poetry: it compresses all life, all races and breeds, into a small island and adds music and the accompaniment of internal engines… [a] poem whose magic is comprehensible to millions of permanent residents but whose full meaning will always remain... See more

Two languages cancel each other out, suggests Barthes, beckoning a third. Sometimes our words are few and far between, or simply ghosted.