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Balm of the summer night, balm of the ordinary, imperial joy and sorrow of human existence, the dreamed as well as the lived— what could be dearer than this, given the closeness of death?

Louise Glück

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Louise Glück
Humans
Ordinary
Dearer
Well
Joy
Balm
Existence
Imperial
Death
Closeness
Given
Dreamed
Night
Summer
Wells
Sorrow
Human
Lived

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I’m like the child who buries her head in the pillow so as not to see, the child who tells herself that light causes sadness—
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I am attracted to ellipsis, to the unsaid, to suggestion, to eloquent, deliberate silence. The unsaid, for me, exerts great power: often I wish an entire poem could be made in this vocabulary. It is analogous to the unseen.
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The advantage of poetry over life is that poetry, if it is sharp enough, may last.
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The soul is silent. If it speaks at all it speaks in dreams.
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To raise the veil. To see what you're saying goodbye to.
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The love of form is a love of endings.
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The unsaid, for me, exerts great power.
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We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.
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He takes her in his arms He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you But he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end You're dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.
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