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In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?

Mary Ruefle

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Mary Ruefle
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: April 16
Essayist
Poet
Writer
Allegheny County
Pennsylvania
Within
Voice
Else
Marginal
Great
Weirdness
Always
Leaning
Forward
Listen
Existence

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In the end I would rather wonder than know
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Irreverence is a way of playing hooky and remaining present at the same time.
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The industrial world destroys nature not because it doesn’t love it but because it is not afraid of it.
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If we knew the value of suffering, we would ask for it.
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In life, the number of beginnings is exactly equal to the number of endings ... In poetry, the number of beginnings so far exceeds the number of endings that we cannot even conceive of it.
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Now I will give you a piece of advice. I will tell you something that I absolutely believe you should do, and if you do not do it you will never be a witer. It is a certain truth. When your pencil is dull, sharpen it. And when your pencil is sharp, use it until it is dull again.
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The origins of poetry are clearly rooted in obscurity, in secretiveness, in incantation, in spells that must at once invoke and protect, tell the secret and keep it.
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in the beginning William Shakespeare was a baby, and knew absolutely nothing. He couldn't even speak.
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Poetry is sentimental to begin with. To write a sentimental poem is an act of redundancy.
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A poem is a finished work of the mind, it is not the work of a finished mind.
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We are all one question, and the best answer seems to be love—a connection between things.
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People, the people we really love, where did they come from? What did we do to deserve them?
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There is a world which poets cannot seem to enter. It is the world everybody else lives in. And the only thing poets seem to have in common is their yearning to enter this world.
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The words secret and sacred are siblings.
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Art has always been aware of itself as art.
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Words have a love for each other, a desire that culminates in poetry.
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I remember I was a child, and when I grew up I was a poet. It all happened at sixty miles an hour and on days when the clock stopped and all of humanity fit into a little chapel, into a pinecone, a shot of ouzo, a snail's shell, a piece of soggy rye on the pavement.
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My happiness is marred only by my failure to attain it.
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