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Sunday, October 7, 2012

she who cannot howl




“If I believe in anything, it is in the dark night of the soul. Awe is my religion, and mystery is its church.”


~ Charles Simic





“He who cannot howl will not find his pack.” 

~ Charles Simic

Oh, but let's respectfully change that to read:


"She who cannot howl will not find her pack."  


I notice that the School of Life is once again offering their course in How to Stay Calm.  Maybe the best students of calm are those who've experienced anxiety the most fully.

When I need to regain my equilibrium - I always turn to The Stream of Life / Agua Viva (in its new translation) by Clarice Lispector.

"I am melancholy. It is morning. But I know the secret of pure mornings. And I relax in the melancholy."  

~ Clarice Lispector



I'm in the mood to let others speak for me this morning.



“When I write, that’s mine. It is free. Nobody tells me what to do and I wouldn’t listen if they did. It’s all mine. It’s my world, I have invented it, these are my people. This is my language. And now I have come to believe that everybody needs one of those places.”

~ Toni Morrison


"At half past three in the morning I woke up. And immediately elastic I jumped out of bed. I came to write to you. I mean: be. Now it's half past five. I want nothing; I am pure. I don't wish this solitude on you. But I myself am in the creating fog. Lucid darkness, luminous stupidity."  

~ Clarice Lispector.




“The time of minor poets is coming. Good-by Whitman, Dickinson, Frost. Welcome you whose fame will never reach beyond your closest family, and perhaps one or two good friends gathered after dinner over a jug of fierce red wine… While the children are falling asleep and complaining about the noise you’re making as you rummage through the closets for your old poems, afraid your wife might’ve thrown them out with last spring’s cleaning.

It’s snowing, says someone who has peeked into the dark night, and then he, too, turns toward you as you prepare yourself to read, in a manner somewhat theatrical and with a face turning red, the long rambling love poem whose final stanza (unknown to you) is hopelessly missing.”


~ Charles Simic, from The World Doesn't End


Poems, over a jug of fierce red wine.........this is what we yearn for anyway, isn't it?

She says, with a howl.


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