The young student sits with his head bent over his books, and his mind straying in youth's dreamland; where prose is prowling on the desk and poetry hiding in the heart.
Rabindranath TagoreTags: poetry youth prose tagore
Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale 'til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free.
Ralph Waldo EmersonTags: art poetry inspiration write prose create
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another til I drop.
Jack KerouacTags: poetry poetic prose adolescent beatnik
The characters in my novels are my own unrealised possibilities. That is why I am equally fond of them all and equally horrified by them. Each one has crossed a border that I myself have circumvented.
Milan KunderaTags: poetry writers poetic characters prose
Säjer att jag rymt hit för din skull men ljuger förstås det låter vackrare då ville bara att du skulle ta bort nåldynan från badrummet ställa in kanske mjölk i kylen låtsas att vi lever lika mycket båda två
stängde dörren för längesen om mej och du bänder loss brädorna men kommer inte in du förstår älskling jag har kilat fast alla öppningar med frusna tårar avbrutna morrhår död hud och blodiga kräkningar har byggt berg utanför av uppsprättade drömmar och klätt in hela trappuppgången i tomhet och du kommer aldrig igenom
man kommer aldrig igenom
men inimej kom inimej och där nånstans låt mej liksom leva bara
Work on good prose has three steps: a musical stage when it is composed, an architectonic one when it is built, and a textile one when it is woven.
Walter BenjaminTags: prose
As his dark closet shows, Bluebeard was a collector at heart, and even after dispatching a wife, could not let her fully depart.
Shuli BarzilaiRain woke him, a slow drizzle, his feet tangled in coils of discarded fiberoptics. The arcade's sea of sound washed over him, receded, returned. Rolling over, he sat up and held his head.
William GibsonIt is not certain whether the effects of totalitarianism upon verse need be so deadly as its effects on prose. There is a whole series of converging reasons why it is somewhat easier for a poet than a prose writer to feel at home in an authoritarian society.[...]what the poet is saying- that is, what his poem "means" if translated into prose- is relatively unimportant, even to himself. The thought contained in a poem is always simple, and is no more the primary purpose of the poem than the anecdote is the primary purpose of the picture. A poem is an arrangement of sounds and associations, as a painting is an arrangement of brushmarks. For short snatches, indeed, as in the refrain of a song, poetry can even dispense with meaning altogether.
George OrwellTags: poetry literature freedom-of-speech prose poet orwell the-prevention-of-literature
I paid the taxi driver, got out with my suitcase, surveyed my surroundings, and just as I was turning to ask the driver something or get back into the taxi and return forthwith to Chillán and then to Santiago, it sped off without warning, as if the somewhat ominous solitude of the place had unleashed atavistic fears in the driver's mind. For a moment I too was afraid. I must have been a sorry sight standing there helplessly with my suitcase from the seminary, holding a copy of Farewell's Anthology in one hand. Some birds flew out from behind a clump of trees. They seemed to be screaming the name of that forsaken village, Querquén, but they also seemed to be enquiring who: quién, quién, quién. I said a hasty prayer and headed for a wooden bench, there to recover a composure more in keeping with what I was, or what at the time I considered myself to be. Our Lady, do not abandon your servant, I murmured, while the black birds, about twenty-five centimetres in length, cried quién, quién, quién. Our Lady of Lourdes, do not abandon your poor priest, I murmured, while other birds, about ten centimetres long, brown in colour, or brownish, rather, with white breasts, called out, but not as loudly, quién, quién, quién, Our Lady of Suffering, Our Lady of Insight, Our Lady of Poetry, do not leave your devoted subject at the mercy of the elements, I murmured, while several tiny birds, magenta, black, fuchsia, yellow and blue in colour, wailed quién, quién, quién, at which point a cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilling me to the bone.
Roberto BolañoTags: words poetry alone prayer prose imagery birds haunting sound creepy eerie
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