We

Writing, Literature, Art, Other. A newsletter dedicated to meditations on craft and the writer's journey. Divining the meaning of the individual in these increasingly collective times. Creatio ex humilitate.Find us on Substack. we503.substack.com

[we503]

There are teeth marks on everything he loves.

from ‘The Thorn Merchant’ by Yusef Komunyakaa (via we503)

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though my heels press my own wet life black, dark to purple, on the smooth rose-streaked threshold of her pavement.

from ‘Amaranth’ by H.D. (via we503)

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Clearly, the artiste knew that in certain roles there is an interest which outlasts the novelty of their first appearances, or the success of their revivals, and that her own interpretation made them into museum-pieces, which it might be instructive to display again to a generation who had once admired her in them, or to reveal to another which had not.

from In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust (via we503)

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All'alba vincerò! Vincerò! Vincerò!

from Nessun Dorma (via we503)

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None shall sleep, None shall sleep! Even you, oh Princess, In your cold room, Watch the stars, That tremble with love And with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, My name no one shall know, No… no… On your mouth, I will tell it, When the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine! (No one will know his name and we must, alas, die.) Vanish, o night! Set, stars! Set, stars! At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!

from Nessun Dorma (via we503)

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Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.

from A3.s4 of King Lear by William Shakespeare (via we503)

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Our desires lack an inner music.

from ‘Tale’ by Arthur Rimbaud

translated by Wyatt Mason

(via we503)

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From the Smile Of the moon that watches me write

from ‘Night Watch’ by Guillaume Apollinaire

translated by Beverly Bie Brahic

(via we503)

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You are not my blood anymore.

from ‘I Give You Back’ by Joy Harjo (via we503)

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—in the beginning of love, our time is spent not in finding out what love is made of, but in trying to make sure we can see each other tomorrow; and at the end of love, you do not try to ascertain the nature of your sorrow, but only to voice it in what you hope is its tenderest form to her who is the cause of it. You say things you feel the need to say and which she will not understand.

from In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust

translated by James Grieve

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But it won't be that way, I'm sane, normal again;

from Sigil by HD

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Fear of freedom is nothing more than fear of the void.

from The Captive Mind by Czeslaw Milosz (via we503)

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We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count’s values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party.

from The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway (via we503)

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there must be voices somewhere.

from ‘The Poet’ by H.D. (via we503)

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—Expression, The touch or look or word, will little avail. The brawniest will not beat back the storm Nor the heaviest haul your little boy from harm.

from ‘looking’ by Gwendolyn Brooks. (via we503)

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fleas, lice, a horse pissing by my pillow

Bashō (via we503)

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From the wound of my enemy that thrust me through               in the dark wood I arose; with sweat on my lip and the wild woodgrasses               in my spur I arose and stood. But never did I arise from loving her.

from ‘Aubade’ by Edna St. Vincent Millay (via we503)