The Poets Are Only The Interpreters Of The Gods By Whom They Are Severally Possessed.

Either she loves him, or she is resolved to.

Wisława Szymborska, Portrait of a Woman tr. Regina Grol

I recognize you by the smell of rain

- Agata Tuszyńska, The Third Shore tr. Regina Grol

Winter is king, raindrops sing, gardens drip with loss.

Nancy Milford, Savage Beauty

the equable but confused light of a summer’s morning in which everything is seen but nothing is seen distinctly

- Virginia Woolf, Orlando

Look how much sadness you can make from showing sadness restrained.

- Heather Christle, The Crying Book

An attempt to intensify the horror by containing it in symmetry.

- Heather Christle, The Crying Book

While I haven’t updated this blog in a bit (I finished my MSc degree which left little room for enjoyment reading), I have begun to pleasure read again (I cannot describe how much I’ve missed Austen) and will be updating shortly.

I also am fully planning on diving headfirst into religious studies as a hobby in 2024, so forthcoming content will reflect this in due time.

those eyes which looked as if they had been fished from the bottom of the sea

- Virginia Woolf, Orlando

The only dream worth having, I told her, is to dream that you will live while you're alive and die only when you're dead. (Prescience? Perhaps.) 'Which means exactly what?' (Arched eyebrows, a little annoyed.) I tried to explain, but didn't do a very good job of it. Sometimes I need to write to think. So I wrote it down for her on a paper napkin. This is what I wrote: To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.

Arundhati Roy, The End of Imagination

The first thing you ever did was cry.

- Heather Christle, The Crying Book