“There are some things one cannot seize by realism, but by sheer poetry. I feel there is too much naturalism; It obscures moods, feelings, psychic states. I am fond of the lower depths, the underworlds. I never find myself fitting in a well assembled series of realistic events. I much rather prefer growth in an atmosphere of music, books and artists, always constructing, creating, writing, drawing, inventing plays, acting in them, writing a diary, living in created dreams as inside a cocoon, dreams born of reading, always reading, growing, disciplining myself to learn, to study, skirting abysses and dangers with incredible innocence, the body always sensitive but in flight from ugliness. I want to remain sincere and surround my innermost world with romance.”
—Anaïs Nin, The Diary Of Anaïs Nin Volume I 1931-1934
“We are not allowed this. We are allowed to be deeply into basketball, or Buddhism, or Star Trek, or jazz, but we are not allowed to be deeply sad. Grief is a thing that we are encouraged to “let go of,” to “move on from,” and we are told specifically how this should be done. Countless well-intentioned friends, distant family members, hospital workers, and strangers I met at parties recited the famous five stages of grief to me: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I was alarmed by how many people knew them, how deeply this single definition of the grieving process had permeated our cultural consciousness. Not only was I supposed to feel these five things, I was meant to feel them in that order and for a prescribed amount of time.”
—Cheryl Strayed
A Song of Despair
(Poema de Amor XX)
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
— Pablo Neruda
the humbling
there are stories of
war field glories,
men have traveled from earth
to the moon,
our ancestors from coast to coast
on horses that died, rivers of pestilence
my story is a bit different, i’m a joke -
pathetic at the core, my wars fought
in my head, never with my heart; i once
called myself a vagabond but that was
a lie, my home was a bar stool just like
my ancestors
and though i walked through the valley of death,
losing my breath, death did not want me
one last shot at glory.
Shouts & Murmurs: The Collected Letters of Marissa Mayer and David Karp
My darling David,
Don’t let these earthly considerations stand in the way of our relationship. Getting to know Tumblr has been the biggest joy of my life. I have never felt so young, so alive, so full of hope for the future as when I am watching your metrics rise exponentially each day.
Oh, I was looking at some of your photos online the other day. Please don’t wear your Google Glass when I introduce you to my board. I want them to approve of you.
All my love, Marissa
—Caitlin Kelly imagines an exchange between Marissa Mayer and David Karp: http://nyr.kr/19XTw6V
May 21st, the secret party life of a book analyst
Dear 2013,
Today I got to see an early copy of a book about a racoon having a secret pizza party and I just….was like….having a life near books is so frigging awesome!
Also:
But that’s fine because:
And so whenever I’m all…
OMG THIS BOOK
And other people are like:
Or I go all analyst on them and I describe my book data…
And other people are like:
I just remember that whatever they go do all day, definitely doesn’t involve a secret racoon pizza party with a secret handshake AND a secret stair case.
Which ultimately renders it barren.
And means my life is like a series of sparkly high fives in a choreographed entrance music dance scene.
Books 4 Lyfe.
Elliott Holt's 'You Are One of Them', a young girl learns the meaning of 'defect'
cleveland.comThanks to Cleveland’s Plain Dealer for this review of my book. (My late mother was from Akron, so she’d be pleased to see my book reviewed by northeast Ohio’s most famous newspaper.)
Short Story Month: An Audio Story
The Bubble: A Short Story by Naomi Alderman by The Independent on Mixcloud
When the composer and performer Moss Freed finished recording his new jazz album What Do You See When You Close Your Eyes?, he wondered what kind of response it might elicit from the listener, and approached some writers to see if they might put it into words. This is novelist Naomi Alderman’s response.
