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I had nothing and I was still changed. Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added.

Louise Glück

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Louise Glück
Nothing
Costumes
Like
Added
Hunger
Changed
Taken
Away
Stills
Numbness
Still
Costume

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At the end of my suffering/there was a door.
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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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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 soul is silent. If it speaks at all it speaks in dreams.
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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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Intense love always leads to mourning.
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Like a child, the earth's going to sleep, or so the story goes. But I'm not tired, it says. And the mother says, You may not be tired but I'm tired
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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 love of form is a love of endings.
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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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What was difficult was the travel, which, on arrival, is forgotten.
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We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.
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I pretended indifference…even in the presence of love, in the presence of hunger. And the more deeply I felt, the less able I was to respond.
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To raise the veil. To see what you're saying goodbye to.
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The advantage of poetry over life is that poetry, if it is sharp enough, may last.
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