when joan didion said we are fatally drawn to anyone who offers a way out of ourselves
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when joan didion said we are fatally drawn to anyone who offers a way out of ourselves
I have not forgotten you — the nights are long and difficult.
— Frida Kahlo, in a letter to Jacqueline Lamba that she transcribed in her diary, featured in The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait
Have you ever seen death? Do you know what love is? Have you ever died of longing? Been eaten up by ambition? Choked on jealousy? Wept for joy? Bitten your finger out of pain?
— Ryszard Kapuściński, in an excerpt from No Known Address, featured in Nobody Leaves: Impressions of Poland
It's hard for people to understand each other. They'll be taking new jobs, participating in the life of a new collective, but — when they go away — will anyone be able to say a word about them? Over the course of a year, a thousand people will know their faces, only a few will know their names, and no one will know their thoughts. Reactions, not motives, count in casual contacts. They go away and so replacements must be found. They arrive, so they must be hired. Is there even any need for probing into the depths of a man? Decoding fates that he himself cannot explain? What is that I want? I myself have nothing more to say about them. What connects us? Two kilometres of road? The inn?
— Ryszard Kapuściński, in an excerpt from On the Ground Floor, featured in Nobody Leaves: Impressions of Poland
I'm nothing but your dream.
— Marina Tsvetaeva, in an excerpt from Insomnia, featured in Bride of Ice: Selected Poems
It was not that life culminated in death, but that death preceded death.
— Ryszard Kapuściński, in an excerpt from The Dune, featured in Nobody Leaves: Impressions of Poland
Everything in nature invites us constantly to be what we are. We are often like rivers: careless and forceful, timid and dangerous, lucid and muddied, eddying, gleaming, still. Lovers, farmers, and artists have one thing in common, at least — a fear of 'dry spells', dormant periods in which we do no blooming, internal droughts only the waters of imagination and psychic release can civilise. All such matters are delicate of course. But a good irrigator knows this: too little water brings on the weeds while too much degrades the soil the way too much easy money can trivialise a person's initiative. In his journal Thoreau wrote, 'A man's life should be as fresh as a river. It should be the same channel but a new water every instant.'
— Gretel Ehrlich, in The Solace of Open Spaces
When music penetrates loneliness, it takes away a person's pain.
— Ryszard Kapuściński, in an excerpt from The Dune, featured in Nobody Leaves: Impressions of Poland
No one has ever stared more tenderly or more fixedly after you... I kiss you — across hundreds of separating years.
— Marina Tsvetaeva, in an excerpt from No One has Taken Anything Away, featured in Bride of Ice: Selected Poems
I feel numb. Numb in all this vividness. I don't seem to occupy my life fully.
— Gretel Ehrlich, in The Solace of Open Spaces
Thank you for loving me like this, for you feel love, although you do not know it.
— Marina Tsvetaeva, in an excerpt from I'm Glad Your Sickness, featured in Bride of Ice: Selected Poems
I thought: to be tough is to be fragile; to be tender is to be truly fierce.
— Gretel Ehrlich, in The Solace of Open Spaces
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
— Gretel Ehrlich, in The Solace of Open Spaces
My life felt flat, then euphoric, then flat again. These fluctuations gained momentum like a paddlewheel: I was dry and airy, then immersed again.
— Gretel Ehrlich, in The Solace of Open Spaces
I am adrift, there is no shore, no boundary to pain — everyone who ever lived is a forfeit.
— Marina Tsvetaeva, in an excerpt from Wires, featured in Bride of Ice: Selected Poems
Now let me say again, wearily — don't be too eager to hear this — your soul now stands in the way of my own.
— Marina Tsvetaeva, in an excerpt from Girlfriend, featured in Bride of Ice: Selected Poems
I love you. I'm glad I exist.
— Wendy Cope, in an excerpt from The Orange, featured in The Orange and Other Poems