Log in

Book Quotes [entries|friends|calendar]
Book Quotes - Quotes From All Writings

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

Joy of Spring [17 Nov 2006|04:34pm]

the birds
brought seeds
& flowers & bits
of brightly colored
string & placed them in
her hair while she slept so
that she would remember
the wild joy of
when she

Brian Andreas
post comment

[01 Oct 2005|10:50pm]

And the Hotel Room Held Only Him
Mari Evans

And the hotel room held only

and the alarm would ring
and he would dress
and lock the door

and the hotel room held only

and the bus would come
and he would open his paper
and then he would nod

and the hotel room held only

and the hot dank coffee smelled of people
and fans whirred, drawers slammed, typewriters clattered
and emptied eyes excluded him

and the hotel room held only

and he just missed the last seat on the bus
and he sat a long time in the cafeteria over his paper
and he walked slowly down the neoned streets

and the hotel room held only

and he threw up his hand and smiled at the desk clerk
and he took the half-silent self –service to seven
and he walked slowly down the worn corridor

and he unlocked his door and closed it...slowly

and the hotel room held only
post comment

[28 Sep 2005|08:08pm]

Sonnet XCVI

I think this time when you loved me
will pass away, and another blue will replace it;
another skin will cover the same bones;
other's eyes will see the spring.

-Pablo Neruda
2 comments|post comment

[03 Jun 2005|11:33pm]

He returned to Mercedes and, as he brooded upon her image, a strange unrest crept into his blood. Sometimes a fever gathered within him and led him to rove alone in the evening along the quiet avenue. The peace of the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into hi restless heart. The noise of children at play annoyed him adn their silly voices made him feel, even more keenly than he had felt at Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did not want to play. He wanted to meet inthe real world hte unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how, but a premonititon which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.

-james joyce, a portrait of the artist as a young man
1 comment|post comment

gods and men. [20 Mar 2005|10:31pm]

[ mood | sad. ]

"What shall I say? Why cry or be bitter?
If my Father in heaven has decreed upon me
and has maimed me with an immutable deformity,
then I do not wish to remove it.
And the sorrow of the impossible
is a human pain that nothing will cure
and for which no comfort can be found.
So, I will bear and suffer
until I die and wither in the ground.
And since I have learned from the tradition
that we bless both the good and the bitter,
I will bless in a voice, hushed and weak,
Blessed are you, O Lord,
who has not made me a woman."

From poem posted entirely here.

3 comments|post comment

[10 Mar 2005|03:28pm]

possibilities of loveCollapse )

ed kleinschmidt
1 comment|post comment

[10 Mar 2005|03:22pm]

wake me
with thy kiss-warmed breath, and take me
where we are one.

michael field
post comment

[10 Mar 2005|03:20pm]

the glass menagerieCollapse )

tennessee williams
1 comment|post comment

[05 Mar 2005|11:35pm]

where everything is musicCollapse )

by Jelaluddin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
post comment

[05 Mar 2005|11:26pm]

XCollapse )

amiri baraka
post comment

[05 Mar 2005|08:45pm]


The way they tell it
All the stars have wings
The sky so full of wings
There is no sky
And just for a moment
You forget
The error and the crimped
Paths of light
And you see it
The immense migration
And you hear the rush
The beating

rebecca elson
1 comment|post comment

from a tunisian notebook. [03 Mar 2005|11:27pm]

[ mood | awed. ]

"The Beginnings of Stars"

The late sun burning close, and slow waves coming in --
the sea's mysterious lit wine of touch
on the sand, slipping away glittering
in scattered glasslike grains for an instant,
and returning again; if we belong
to each other, we belong to that touch.
Then suddenly the sun is gone; the sky
is a dark purple darkening to black.
Those sky deities appear, those bright ones
inexorably performing their fixed
and millennia-old roles said to rule a life --
glints, coruscations, crushed glare-origins
within abundant rich clusters of grapes
spreading throughout the night's summer vineyard.
There are the never-beheld-before stars,
we wish we could say rightly and at last,
when we know even the closest we see
had to have been born more than long ago,
and the farthest born and died before that.
But since the light is the way we see light,
it must be travelling in a heaven
of more than our memory will allow,
where we ourselves might see how no person
or thing or love is ever gone, but visible,
and forever new, in light, and in us,
where light is always turning, flower-like,
opening and closing and opening.
We build a fire which will repeat at night
what the sun did during the day; the sparks
fly off and disappear the way the stars
will seem to disappear tomorrow in the sun.
The body is the wine-flask and the wine;
the lover is the veil on the beloved's face.
And what we hide within, and hides from us
through all our hours of light, seems dark, and yet,
now in the dark as in the one centre
of the fusions that are stars, is pure time,
when the bodies we are wake in their day,
and we taste that day's wine, that endless beginning
of nameless fate, when we give ourselves up
to our lives, and enter another life.

--Russell Thornton
from A Tunisian Notebook

1 comment|post comment

[02 Mar 2005|09:46pm]


since we must soon be fed
as honey and new bread
to ever hungry death:
o, love me very sweet
and kiss me very long
and let us use our breath
for song.
nothing else endures

elsa gidlow
post comment

[02 Mar 2005|02:31pm]


You bruise blue and stagger
into the falling tendrils of summer.
Why, my minute sister, dark
and translucent through the setting sun,
dance wild in liquid perfection.
Some secret song pours out
and cracks the air like falling napalm
over stick villages and jungle growth.
My unhinged girl, when you leave
your skin and dirt behind,
will you teach me to blossom?

claudia scott
post comment

[25 Feb 2005|11:36pm]

wild geeseCollapse )

mary oliver
1 comment|post comment

ezra pound. [20 Feb 2005|01:04am]

"First came the seen, then thus the palpable
Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee."
-Ezra Pound, Pisan Cantos, LXXXI
post comment

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking [17 Feb 2005|08:07pm]

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking

Walt Whitman

Out of the cradle endlessly rockingCollapse )
post comment

One Art [12 Feb 2005|04:22pm]

[ mood | nerdy ]

One Art

Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
thought it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

1 comment|post comment

now sure if i posted this or not.. [05 Feb 2005|08:33pm]

Roses RisingCollapse )

renee vivien
post comment

[04 Feb 2005|11:21pm]

'I could as easily forget your name as the food by which I live;
nay, it would be easier to forget the food, which only nourishes
my body, than your name, which nourishes both body and soul.'

- Michelangelo (in a letter to Tommaso Cavalieri), July 28th, 1533
5 comments|post comment

[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]