The poet is a man who feigns
And feigns so thoroughly, at last
He manages to feign as pain
The pain he really feels.

And those who read what once he wrote
Feel clearly, in the pain they read,
Neither of the pains he felt,
Only a pain they cannot sense.

And thus, around its jolting track
There runs, to keep our reason busy,
The circling clockwork train of ours
That men agree to call a heart.

—Fernando Pessoa


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Hreinn Friðfinnsson - Seven Times, 1978-79 (detail)
…How cold the vacancy
When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist
First sees reality. The mortal no
Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
The tragedy, however, may have begun,
Again, in the imagination’s new beginning,
In the yes of the realist spoken because he must
Say yes, spoken because under every no
Lay a passion for yes that had never been broken. Wallace Stevens, Esthétique du Mal
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The world’s longest metro bridge in Novosibirsk, 2145 meters.

Pierre Bonnard in his studio
Paris 1946

One of the best parts of being in your late twenties is developing an attitude toward falling in love that is similar to your attitude toward the common cold.  There’s precious little you can do to make it go away quicker, but you learn to treat and, more importantly, ignore the symptoms with considerable equanimity. 

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Pamela Phatsimo Sunstrumtransmit 01, 2012
Good taste cannot supply the place of genius in literature, for the best proof of taste, when there is no genius, would be, not to write at all. Madame de Staël
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Mankind hates us: we serve none of its purposes; and we hate it, because it injures us. So let us love one another “in Art,” as mystics love one another “in God.” Let everything else pale before this love. May all life’s kitchen-candles (every one of which reeks) disappear in the light of that great sun. Gustave Flaubert, letter to Louise Colet, April 14, 1853
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The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. The trees imagine they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The arrows: they have no imagination. Richard Siken, “The Stag and the Quiver,” published on The Awl (via bostonpoetryslam)
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And I went down
to pick an apple, to pick an apple
off the tree. And the sound
of the apple dropping, apple dropping,
sent up an echo, sent up an echo
of the graveyard, of the orchard
and the truth of the buried,
of the buried as seed. Laura Jensen, Memory
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