I win a whole day to watch clouds pile past the mountain and contemplate the fact that I am an illusion. There is no self, the classical masters are firm on this. No Ahab. No Starbuck. No whale?
Plainwater by Anne Carson
Tag: quotes
I win a whole day to watch clouds pile past the mountain and contemplate the fact that I am an illusion. There is no self, the classical masters are firm on this. No Ahab. No Starbuck. No whale?
Plainwater by Anne Carson
If someone asks me, ‘Why do you write?’ I can reply by pointing out that it is a very dumb question. Nevertheless, there is an answer. I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.
William Gass, The Paris Review
If someone asks me, ‘Why do you write?’ I can reply by pointing out that it is a very dumb question. Nevertheless, there is an answer. I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.
William Gass, The Paris Review
Six feet tall and arms like bundled wire. He go strutting the length of the house. Bottle cap pried up with his long bad teeth, spitting tin and blood in the trashcan and turning to put that sweet mouth on me, saying, Heart, come closer. Come here. Loving in your wolfish, in your wicked.
I’ve known you and known you and known you. For always all cramped up in your bedroom like little. See this: this marks the sixteenth August what you told me it’s too toxic to go outside.
“How I Gonna Bare My Neck Outside in the Sweat-Scared Morning” by Delaney Nolan
(Hobart 14 contributor / Buffalo Prize winner, Delaney Nolan!)
Six feet tall and arms like bundled wire. He go strutting the length of the house. Bottle cap pried up with his long bad teeth, spitting tin and blood in the trashcan and turning to put that sweet mouth on me, saying, Heart, come closer. Come here. Loving in your wolfish, in your wicked.
I’ve known you and known you and known you. For always all cramped up in your bedroom like little. See this: this marks the sixteenth August what you told me it’s too toxic to go outside.
“How I Gonna Bare My Neck Outside in the Sweat-Scared Morning” by Delaney Nolan
(Hobart 14 contributor / Buffalo Prize winner, Delaney Nolan!)
‘And what about you?’ Rateau said. ‘Do you exist? You never say anything bad about anyone.’ Jonas began to laugh. ‘Oh! I often think bad of them. But then I forget.’ He became serious. ‘No, I’m not sure of existing. But someday I’ll exist, I’m sure.’
“The Artist at Work” by Albert Camus
‘And what about you?’ Rateau said. ‘Do you exist? You never say anything bad about anyone.’ Jonas began to laugh. ‘Oh! I often think bad of them. But then I forget.’ He became serious. ‘No, I’m not sure of existing. But someday I’ll exist, I’m sure.’
“The Artist at Work” by Albert Camus
The young composer, working that summer at an artist’s colony, had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she mused and considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she turned to him and said, “I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you that I have had a double mastectomy,” and when he didn’t understand, “I’ve lost both my breasts.” The radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity—like music—withered quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, “I’m sorry I don’t think I could.” He walked back to his own cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl—she must have swept the corners of her studio—was full of dead bees.
“A Story About the Body” by Robert Hass
The young composer, working that summer at an artist’s colony, had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she mused and considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she turned to him and said, “I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you that I have had a double mastectomy,” and when he didn’t understand, “I’ve lost both my breasts.” The radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity—like music—withered quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, “I’m sorry I don’t think I could.” He walked back to his own cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl—she must have swept the corners of her studio—was full of dead bees.
“A Story About the Body” by Robert Hass