Love is a wonderfully luxuriant plant, but unclassifiable really, fading as it does into mysticism on the one side and naked cupidity on the other.
—Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet: Balthazar (via indigenousdialogues)
(via elysskama)
Posts tagged definition:
“What I would say is this: Writing poems doesn’t make you a poet … It is only with poetry, for some reason, that everyone wants to believe they can try their hand at it once in a while and be considered, can call themselves a poet … It’s a craft. It’s an art. It’s a skill. It is not therapy, and it is not compensation for terrible things in one’s life. It is a thing in itself. You devote yourself to being an instrument of it, or you wander forever in the belief that it is a form of “self-expression.” … And I explained very clearly my opinion of what I think a poet, an artist is. Someone who puts this thing first.”
—Franz Wright
The question of love is one that cannot be evaded. Whether or not you claim to be interested in it, from the moment you are alive you are bound to be concerned with love, because love is not just something that happens to you: It is a certain special way of being alive. Love is, in fact, an intensification of life, a completeness, a fullness, a wholeness of life.
—Thomas Merton (via fyeahphilosophy)
(via montanablackart)
Loneliness does not come from having no people around one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.
—Carl Jung (via modernmethadone)
(via thenightopus)
“I am not a poet, so I can say what no poet could say without betraying [one’s] guild. Poetry is love. Love of man and other things.”
—Walter Inglis Anderson
![“Love is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become world, to become world for [one’s self] and for another’s sake; it is a great exacting claim upon him [or her], something that chooses him [or her] out and calls one to vast things.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke
Image: Rainer Maria Rilke with his lover, the painter Baladine Klossowska (Muzot, Switerland, 1923)](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3br5z5OgE1qe0r71o1_r1_500.jpg)
“Love is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become world, to become world for [one’s self] and for another’s sake; it is a great exacting claim upon him [or her], something that chooses him [or her] out and calls one to vast things.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke
Image: Rainer Maria Rilke with his lover, the painter Baladine Klossowska (Muzot, Switerland, 1923)
You ask “What is life?” That is the same as asking “What is a carrot?” A carrot is a carrot and we know nothing more.
—Anton Chekhov, letter to his wife, Olga Knipper Chekhov (April 20, 1904)
(Source: pornforblind, via corwood)
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness – such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry…
—Jorge Luis Borges, from “The Art of Poetry” (via litverve)
Poetry is the least imposition on silence in a world of chatter.
—Marvin Bell (with thanks to litverve)
(via growing-orbits)
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