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To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived, is itself delightful, a suspended moment of living hope.

Anne Carson

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Anne Carson
Age: 74
Born: 1950
Born: June 21
Linguist
Literary Critic
Poet
Professor
Translator
Writer
City of Toronto
Carson
Anne
Delightful
Moment
Hope
Living
Breathlessly
Running
Bittersweet
Moments
Eros
Suspended
Arrived

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Lava bread makes you passionate.
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A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.
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You can get used to eating breakfast with a man in a fedora. You can get used to anything, my mother was in the habit of saying.
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It takes practice to shave the skin off the light.
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Aristotle says that metaphor causes the mind to experience itself in the act of making a mistake.
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DEATH . . . And now you are here to fight for this woman. You know her promise is given. She has to die or her husband won't go free. APOLLO Relax, I'm not breaking any laws. DEATH Why the bow, if you're breaking no laws? APOLLO I always carry a bow, it's my trademark.
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Reality is a sound, you have to tune in to it not just keep yelling.
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Here we go mother on the shipless ocean. Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.
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When an ecstatic is asked the question, What is it that love dares the self to do? she will answer: Love dares the self to leave itself behind, to enter into poverty.
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One of the principle qualities of pain is that it demands an explanation.
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he stood against the wind and let it peel him clean
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Do you remember when they taught cursive in schools? I think they don't anymore. But I still enjoy it - just the physical act and all the - the whole business of making a thing out of language.
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We are only midway through the central verse of our youth when we see ourselves begin to blacken. ... We had been seduced into thinking that we were immortal and suddenly the affair is over.
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We participate in the creation of the world by decreating ourselves.
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The words we read and words we write never say exactly what we mean. The people we love are never just as we desire them. The two symbola never perfectly match. Eros is in between.
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Prowling the meanings of a word, prowling the history of a person, no use expecting a flood of light. Human words have no main switch. But all those little kidnaps in the dark. And then the luminous, big, shivering, discandied, unrepentant, barking web of them that hangs in your mind when you turn back to the page you were trying to translate.
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Time isn't made of anything. It is an abstraction. Just a meaning that we impose upon motion.
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We're talking about the struggle to drag a thought over from the mush of the unconscious into some kind of grammar, syntax, human sense every attempt means starting over with language. Starting over with accuracy.
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A page with a poem on it is less attractive than a page with a poem on it and some tea stains.
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Up against another human being one's own procedures take on definition
Anne Carson