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What was difficult was the travel, which, on arrival, is forgotten.

Louise Glück

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Louise Glück
Arrival
Arrivals
Memorable
Forgotten
Travel
Difficult

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Desire, loneliness, wind in the flowering almond— surely these are the great, the inexhaustible subjects to which my predecessors apprenticed themselves. I hear them echo in my own heart, disguised as convention.
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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?
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The advantage of poetry over life is that poetry, if it is sharp enough, may last.
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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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As I saw it, all my mother's life, my father held her down, like lead strapped to her ankles. She was buoyant by nature she wanted to travel, go to the theater, go to museums. What he wanted was to lie on the couch with the Times over his face, so that death, when it came, wouldn't seem a significant change.
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The soul is silent. If it speaks at all it speaks in dreams.
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I had nothing and I was still changed. Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added.
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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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To raise the veil. To see what you're saying goodbye to.
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