Post-It Collection

It is hard to imagine a civilization without onions. (Julia Childs)

For the taste of the fruit
is the tongue's dream,
& the apple's red
is the passion of the eye. (Erica Jong)

The shadow is bluest when the body that cast it has vanished. (Rafael Alberti)

The notion of emptiness generates passion. (Theodore Roethke)

Evidence of life:
that we could meet for the first time,
open our scars & stitches to each other,
weave our legs around
each other's patchwork dreams
& try to salve each other's wounds
with love -
if it was love. (Erica Jong)

(She died of internal weeping.) (Eleanor Ross Taylor)

Two habits have taught me how to keep back my tears: the habit of concealing my thoughts, and that of darkening my lashes with mascara. (Colette)

I sing of autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves. (D.H. Lawrence)

... melancholia is about as happy a state as any other, I suppose. (Zelda Fitzgerald)

TRUTH HAS VERY FEW FRIENDS AND THOSE FEW ARE SUICIDES. (Antonio Porchia)

I am writing this from the end of the world. (Henri Michaux)

She had forgotten how the August night
Was level as a lake beneath the moon,
In which she swam a little, losing sight
Of shore; and how the boy, who was at noon
Simple enough, not different from the rest,
Wore now a pleasant mystery as he went,
Which seemed to her an honest enough test
Whether she loved him, and she was content.
So loud, so loud the million crickets' choir...
So sweet the night, so long-drawn-out and late...
And if the man were not her spirit's mate,
Why was her body sluggish with desire?
Stark on the open field the moonlight fell,
But the oak tree's shadow was deep and black and secret as a well. (Edna St. Vincent Millay)

I shall create! If not a note, a hole. If not an overture, a desecration. (Gwendolyn Brooks)

And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,
Tossing it up under the clouds. (Ezra Pound)

I tug at life by its leaf hem:
will it stop for me, just once,
momentarily forgetting
to what end it runs and runs? (Wislawa Szymborska)

I swayed like a wave between the life I dreamed and the changing dream I lived. (Adonis)

O grasses of sleep, bitterly sweet grasses of oblivion... (Nijole Milauskaite)

Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion. (Joseph Conrad)

Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing. (Edmund Burke)

Strangers' faces hold no secrets because the imagination does not invest them with any. But the face of a lover is an unknown precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment. (James Baldwin)

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? (Lord Byron)

Oh my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, ina dawn of cornflowers. (Sylvia Plath)

I shall call myself Alice and play croquet with the flamigoes. In Wonderland everyone cheats and love is Wonderland isn't it? (Jeanette Winterson)

I will not talk to my own darkness, I promised myself, closing the door to the Other. A fall from the third floor hurts as much as a fall from the hundredth. If I have to fall, may it be from a high place. (Paulo Coehlo)

then I shall need wings. only wings. (Joan Kaplinski)

What's writing really about? It's about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life. (Ted Hughes)

Since he did not know the bar he felt an unaccustomed uneasiness and wondered what the faces around him hid. (James Baldwin)