Coming at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers. Where
Did it end? There is no telling. No love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves’ boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Coming at an end. Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain
Two persons. Yes,
Poetry ends like a rope.
—Jack Spicer, "A Book of Music," from My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer (Wesley University Press, (via apoetreflects)
- Gil: Were you scared?
- Ernest Hemingway: Of what?
- Gil: Of getting killed.
- Ernest Hemingway: You'll never write well if you fear dying. Do you?
- Gil: Yeah, I do. I'd say probably, might be my greatest fear actually.
- Ernest Hemingway: It's something all men before you have done, all men will do.
- Gil: I know, I know.
- Ernest Hemingway: Have you ever made love to a truly great woman?
- Gil: Actually, my fiancé is pretty sexy.
- Ernest Hemingway: And when you make love to her you feel true and beautiful passion. And you for at least that moment lose your fear of death.
- Gil: No, that doesn't happen.
- Ernest Hemingway: I believe that love that is true and real creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving, or not loving well, which is the same thing. And when the man who is brave and true looks death squarely in the face like some rhino hunters I know, or Belmonte, who's truly brave. It is because they love with sufficient passion to push death out of their minds, until the return that it does to all men. And then you must make really good love again. Think about it.
Your ignorance, cramps my conversation.
—Sir Anthony Hawkins. (via quotedojo)
Memory belongs to the imagination. Human memory is not like a computer that records things; it is part of the imaginative process, on the same terms as invention. In other words, inventing a character or recalling a memory is part of the same process. This is very clear in Proust: For him there is no difference between lived experience—his relationship with his mother, and so forth—and his characters. Exactly the same type of truth is involved.
I’m astounded whenever I finish something. Astounded and distressed. My perfectionist instinct should inhibit me from finishing: it should inhibit me from even beginning. But I get distracted and start doing something. What I achieve is not the product of an act of my will but of my will’s surrender. I begin because I don’t have the strength to think; I finish because I don’t have the courage to quit. This book is my cowardice.
—Fernando Pessoa (via quotes-shape-us)