"there is a hollow place
to where you must go. a way of knowing
you must kneel to find that a sought-out emptiness may
become a resonant presence
a burrowing here in deep-waiting"
“What is love? There is nothing in the world, neither man nor Devil nor any thing, that I hold as suspect as love, for it penetrates the soul
more than any other thing. Nothing exists that so fills and binds the heart as love does.
Therefore, unless you have those weapons that subdue it, the soul plunges through love into an immense abyss.”
“Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes.
The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish.
So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep.
And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, __________, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath
your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life
you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.”
“Forest, I fear you!
In my ruined heart your roaring wakens the same agony as in cathedrals when the organ moans
and from the depths I hear that I am damned.”
howls seaward through charred, ravaged holes"
“Ambrosia no longer exists. Looking at the empty sky, I ask myself if it ever did really exist. That mesh of leaves and twigs of fork and froth, minute and endless, with the sky glimpsed only in sudden specks and splinters, perhaps it was only there so that my brother could pass through it with his tom-tit’s tread, was embroidered on nothing, like this thread of ink which I have let run on for page after page, swarming with cancellations, corrections, doodles, blots and gaps, bursting at times into clear big berries, coagulating at others into piles of tiny starry seeds, then twisting away, forking off, surrounding buds of phrases with frameworks of leaves and clouds, then interweaving again, and so running on and on until it splutters and bursts into a last senseless cluster of words, ideas, dreams and so ends.”
“Shortly afterwards it started raining, very innocently at first, but the sky was packed tight with cloud and gradually the drops grew bigger and heavier, until it was autumn’s dismal rain that was falling—rain that seemed to fill the entire world with its leaden beat, rain suggestive in its dreariness of everlasting waterfalls between the planets, rain that thatched the heavens with drabness and brooded oppressively over the whole countryside, like a disease, strong in the power of its flat, unvarying monotony, its smothering heaviness, its cold, unrelenting cruelty. Smoothly, smoothly it fell, over the whole shire, over the fallen marsh grass, over the troubled lake, the iron-grey gravel flats, the sombre mountain above the croft, smudging out every prospect. And the heavy, hopeless, interminable beat wormed its way into every crevice in the house, lay like a pad of cotton wool over the ears, and embraced everything, both near and far, in its compass, like an unromantic story from life itself that has no rhythm and no crescendo, no climax, but which is nevertheless overwhelming in its scope, terrifying in its significance.”