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Those nights lying alone are not discontinuous with this cold hectic dawn. It is who I am.

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
Night
Discontinuous
Hectic
Nights
Dawn
Cold
Alone
Lying

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Love dares the self to leave itself behind, to enter into poverty.
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I do think I have an ability to record sensual and emotional facts and factoids, to construct a convincing surface of what life feels like, both physical life and emotional life.
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Life pulls softly inside your bindings. The pod glows - dear stench.
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Sometimes I dream a sentence and write it down. It’s usually nonsense, but sometimes it seems a key to another world.
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One of the principle qualities of pain is that it demands an explanation.
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It is when you are asking about something that you realize you yourself have survived it, and so you must carry it, or fashion it into a thing that carries itself.
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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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Caught between the tongue and the taste.
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You used to say. Desire doubled is love and love doubled is madness. Madness doubled is marriage I added when the caustic was cool, not intending to produce a golden rule.
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he stood against the wind and let it peel him clean
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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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Poetry - poiesis means a thing made.
Anne Carson
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Myths are stories about people who become too big for their lives temporarily, so that they crash into other lives or brush against gods. In crisis their souls are visible.
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Here we go mother on the shipless ocean. Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.
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They were two superior eels at the bottom of the tank and they recognized each other like italics.
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When they made love Geryon liked to touch in slow succession each of the bones of Herakles' back as it arched away from him into who knows what dark dream of its own, running both hands all the way down from the base of the neck to the end of the spine which he can cause to shiver like a root in the rain.
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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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A refugee population is hungry for language and aware that anything can happen.
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To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived, is itself delightful, a suspended moment of living hope.
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Men know almost nothing about desire, they think it has to do with sexual activity or can be discharged that way. But sex is a substitute, like money or language. Sometimes I just want to stop seeing.
Anne Carson