|
b660d1e
|
Note, to-day, an instructive, curious spectacle and conflict. Science, (twin, in its fields, of Democracy in its)--Science, testing absolutely all thoughts, all works, has already burst well upon the world--a sun, mounting, most illuminating, most glorious--surely never again to set. But against it, deeply entrench'd, holding possession, yet remains, (not only through the churches and schools, but by imaginative literature, and unregenerate poetry,) the fossil theology of the mythic-materialistic, superstitious, untaught and credulous, fable-loving, primitive ages of humanity.
|
|
literature
poetry
science
instructive
credulous
fossil
mythic
spectacle
testing
untaught
primitive
superstitious
schools
fable
prose
science-vs-religion
glorious
theology
conflict
curious
democracy
|
Walt Whitman |
|
cd41a88
|
Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.
|
|
verse
prose
nonsense
|
Lewis Carroll |
|
873a62a
|
DADDY You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one grey toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic When it pours bean green over blue In the waters of beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not And less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two-- The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never like you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
|
|
onomatopoeia
prose
rhythm
|
Sylvia Plath |
|
efa31d2
|
"I get so god damn lonely and sad and filled with regrets some days. It overwhelms me as I'm sitting on the bus; watching the golden leaves from a window; a sudden burst of realisation in the middle of the night. I can't help it and I can't stop it. I'm alone as I've always been and sometimes it hurts.... but I'm learning to breathe deep through it and keep walking. I'm learning to make things nice for myself. To comfort my own heart when I wake up sad. To find small bits of friendship in a crowd full of strangers. To find a small moment of joy in a blue sky, in a trip somewhere not so far away, a long walk an early morning in December, or a handwritten letter to an old friend simply saying "I thought of you. I hope you're well." No one will come and save you. No one will come riding on a white horse and take all your worries away. You have to save yourself, little by little, day by day. Build yourself a home. Take care of your body. Find something to work on. Something that makes you excited, something you want to learn. Get yourself some books and learn them by heart. Get to know the author, where he grew up, what books he read himself. Take yourself out for dinner. Dress up for no one but you and simply feel nice. it's a lovely feeling, to feel pretty. You don't need anyone to confirm it.
|
|
lovely
gratitude
happy
trying
feelings
depression
joy
books
learning
life-quotes
sadness
friendship
heart
heal
anxiety-disorder
being-happy
bus
december
mental-wellness
panic-attacks
minimalism
breath
deep
self-care
mindfulness
healing
prose
plan
breathing
growing-up
well
sky
worrying
worries
emotions
panic
moment
regret
learn
recovery
lonely
sad
night
mental-health
letters
|
Charlotte Eriksson |
|
b1cdb3f
|
Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end.
|
|
writing
flying
descriptive
prose
|
Haruki Murakami |
|
7771c16
|
Colors shone with exceptional clarity in the rain. The ground was a deep black, the pine branches a brilliant green, the people wrapped in yellow looking like special spirits that were allowed to wander over the earth on rainy mornings only.
|
|
rain
spirit
clarity
colours
prose
|
Haruki Murakami |
|
10cf827
|
Behind the perfection of a man's style, must lie the passion of a man's soul.
|
|
writing
walter-pater
prose
style
soul
|
Oscar Wilde |
|
92e34c6
|
Poems, even when narrative, do not resemble stories. All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory or defeat. Everything moves towards the end, when the outcome will be known. Poems, regardless of any outcome, cross the battlefields, tending the wounded, listening to the wild monologues of the triumphant or the fearful. They bring a kind of peace. Not by anaesthesia or easy reassurance, but by recognition and the promise that what has been experienced cannot disappear as if it had never been. Yet the promise is not of a monument. (Who, still on a battlefield, wants monuments?) The promise is that language has acknowledged, has given shelter, to the experience which demanded, which cried out.
|
|
prose
stories
|
John Berger |
|
c3c537a
|
Poetry is prose in slow motion.
|
|
prose
|
Nicholson Baker |
|
6b2e11f
|
...wisely mingled poetry and prose.
|
|
poetry
louisa-may-alcott
prose
|
Louisa May Alcott |
|
28c9994
|
Rain woke him, a slow drizzle, his feet tangled in coils of discarded fiberoptics. The arcade's sea of sound washed over him, receded, returned. Rolling over, he sat up and held his head.
|
|
prose
|
William Gibson |
|
32c8f39
|
Outside our small safe place flies mystery.
|
|
prose
|
A.S. Byatt |
|
886c895
|
I suppose that's how it looks in prose. But it's very different if you look at it through poetry...and I think it's nicer...' Anne recovered herself and her eyes shone and her cheeks flushed... 'to look at it through poetry.
|
|
poetry
prose
|
L.M. Montgomery |
|
c8d97f4
|
Afghanistan had collapsed and everyone's life now lies broken at different levels within the rubble.
|
|
war
prose
|
Nadeem Aslam |
|
ee66f4f
|
The Tao Te Ching is partly in prose, partly in verse; but as we define poetry now, not by rhyme and meter but as a patterned intensity of language, the whole thing is poetry. I wanted to catch that poetry, its terse, strange beauty. Most translations have caught meanings in their net, but prosily, letting the beauty slip through. And in poetry, beauty is no ornament; it is the meaning. It is the truth. We have that on good authority.
|
|
poetry
meaning
tao-te-ching
translation
prose
|
Ursula K. Le Guin |
|
1a5bf12
|
One often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject, though it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of this Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard capitals. Give me a condor's quill! Give me Vesuvius' crater for an inkstand! Friends, hold my arms! For in the mere act of penning my thoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their out-reaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and mastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding its suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and liberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it.
|
|
literature
history
herman-melville
masterpiece
moby-dick
prose
english
quotes
novel
|
Herman Melville |
|
c8f9abe
|
Of all the art forms, poetry is the most economical. It is the one which is the most secret, which requires the least physical labor, the least material, and the one which can be done between shifts, in the hospital pantry, on the subway, and on scraps of surplus paper. Over the last few years, writing a novel on tight finances, I came to appreciate the enormous differences in the material demands between poetry and prose. As we reclaim our literature, poetry has been the major voice of poor, working class, and Colored women. A room of one's own may be a necessity for writing prose, but so are reams of paper, a typewriter, and plenty of time.
|
|
literature
poetry
prose
class
race
gender
|
Audre Lorde |
|
94fb506
|
"Niko? I have decided to christen this little pool Le Cagot's Soul." "Oh?" "Yes. Because it is clear and pure and lucid." "And treacherous and dangerous?" "You know, Niko, I begin to suspect that you are a man of prose. It is a blemish on you." "No one's perfect." "Speak for yourself."
|
|
prose
|
Trevanian |
|
37ebfdb
|
He was a compact, clearcut man, with precise features, a lot of very soft black hair, and thoughtful dark brown eyes. He had a look of wariness, which could change when he felt relaxed or happy, which was not often in these difficult days, into a smile of amused friendliness and pleasure which aroused feelings of warmth, and something more, in many women.
|
|
character-development
characteristics
prose
description
|
A.S. Byatt |
|
fe395dc
|
The great error consists in supposing that poetry is an unnatural form of language. We should all like to speak poetry at the moment when we truly live, and if we do not speak it, it is because we have an impediment in our speech. It is not song that is the narrow or artificial thing, it is conversation that is a broken and stammering attempt at song. When we see men in a spiritual extravaganza, like Cyrano de Bergerac, speaking in rhyme, it is not our language disguised or distorted, but our language rounded and made whole.
|
|
song
prose
speech
|
G.K. Chesterton |
|
6a84ed8
|
As I am a woman, I am the means by which sin enters this world. I am the devil's gateway, the cursed ingress. I am the means by which Satan attacks the man, whom he was not bold enough to attack, except through me. Well, that is their view of the situation. My view is that there are too many priests with scant learning and smaller occupation. And I wish the Pope and the Emperor and all Spaniards were in the sea and drowned.
|
|
prose
|
Hilary Mantel |
|
6de8c6a
|
Three boys. Three deaths. One school. We've made the national news. Is out school cursed? Are we a reckless bunch of fools? The media asks questions no one can answer. Kids can't stop crying.
|
|
loss
prose
|
Lisa Schroeder |
|
cf81a39
|
THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept crocodile tears across the parched Los Angeles landscape. When Ivy was a child and she overheard adults talking about their break-ups, in her young feeble-formed mind, she imagined it in the most literal of essences. She once heard her mother speaking of her break up with an emotionally unavailable man. She said they broke up on 69th Street. Ivy visualized her mother and that man breaking into countless fragments, like a spilled box of jigsaw pieces. And she imagined them shattered in broken shards, being blown down the pavement of 69th Street. For some reason, on the drive home from Marcel's apartment that next morning, all Ivy could think about was her mother and that faceless man in broken pieces, perhaps some aspects of them still stuck in cracks and crevices of the sidewalk, mistaken as grit. She couldn't get the image of Marcel having his seizure out of her mind. It left a burning sensation in the center of her chest. An incessant flame torched her lungs, chest, and even the back door of her tongue. Witnessing someone you cared about experiencing a seizure was one of those things that scribed itself indelibly on the canvas of your mind. It was gut-wrenching. Graphic and out-of-body, it was the stuff that post traumatic stress syndrome was made of.
|
|
sex
emotion
poetry
meaning
beauty
inspiration
humor
love
wisdom
black-authors
black-history
deity
literary-fiction
scorpios
valentine-s-day
wilmington
rebirth
prose
foodies
stress
knowledge
new-york
|
Brandi L. Bates |