Beautiful, you said. You said I was beautiful, and when you said it, I was.
Sandra Cisneros, from Woman at Hollering Creek: Stories; “Never Marry a Mexican,”
Etikett: poetry
“…but the truth is I am terribly weak. And I crave the balm of beautiful and soft things.”
— Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Linotte: The Early Diary Of
Anaïs Nin (1914-1920)
“But there is a clarity about September. On clear days, the sun seems brighter, the sky more blue, the white clouds take on marvelous shapes; the moon is a wonderful apparition, rising gold, cooling to silver; and the stars are so big.”
— Faith Baldwin, Evening Star
Sleep, sleep, my soul, my dear. I am not going to wake you.
Ivan Bunin, from The Collected Short Stories; “Memories of Sukhodol,”
Sad-looking women in old fashioned dresses, and roses that cry.
Sandra Cisneros, from The House on Mango Street: Stories; “Elenita, Cards, Palm, Water,”
“You have some touches of the angel in you—”
— Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
“…the same dark dream.”
— Vicente Aleixandre, from A Longing for the Light; “Lightless”
Her love had bloomed like that scarlet flower in the garden of a children’s tale. A love that she’d conceal from everyone forever, a love that demanded nothing, expected nothing.
Ivan Bunin, from The Collected Short Stories; “Memories of Sukhodol,”
Unexplained, seductive, never detained, never enough.
Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems; “Crossing the Atlantic,” (edited)
Maybe she doesn’t know how else to be; except to be good. But, if that’s the case, she’s murderously good. Cannot expunge her dark, demonic side. Only keep it hidden.
Susan Sontag, from “Death Kit,” published c. January 1967
beberequin 