2003 Ipswich Festival
“Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.”
— Emily Dickinson
An Idea ran about the world
screaming with the pain of the mind
until it met a child
who stopped it with a word.
The Idea leaned over those newborn eyes
and dreamed of the nature of things:
the nature of memory and the nature of love;
and forgave itself and all men.
Quieted in a sea of sleeping
the Idea began its long return –
renewed by the child’s sea-colored eyes
remembered the flesh, smiled and said:
I see birds, spring and the birthplace
unknown by the stable stone.
I know light and I know motion
and I remember I am not alone.
The Idea voyaged nearer my breathing, saying
Come balance come
into the love of these faces and forces
find us our equilibrium.
And the child stirred, asking his questions.
The Idea grew more fleshly and spoke:
Beaten down I was
Down I knew very long
Newborn I begin.
And the child went on asking his questions.
The Idea journeying into my body
returned, and I knew the nature of One,
and could forget One, and turn to the child,
and whole could turn to the world again.
Until the pain turns into answers
and all the masters become askers
And all the victims again doers
And all the sources break in light.
The child goes alive, asking his questions.
Every now and again take a good look at something not made with hands – a mountain, a star, the turn of a stream. There will come to you wisdom and patience and solace and, above all, the assurance that you are not alone in the world.
Sidney Lovett (via larmoyante)
I always find it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don’t.
W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil (via larmoyante)
Go so far away that you stop being afraid of not coming back.
Eve Ensler, I am an Emotional Creature: The Secret Life of Girls Around the World (via larmoyante)
That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn’t include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out.
Janet Fitch, White Oleander (via larmoyante)
Talking nonsense is the sole privilege mankind possesses over the other organisms. It’s by talking nonsense that one gets to the truth! I talk nonsense, therefore I’m human.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground (via larmoyante)
We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.
Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead (via larmoyante)
Care about what other people think and you will always be their prisoner.
Lao Tzu (via larmoyante)