I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel - drained. It is a blank state of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also it is a very private feeling I have - that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all.
Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters (via larmoyante)
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
Vladimir Nabokov (via thingsandschemes)
Despite the glorious subjectivity of poetry, with each poem holding significant personal meaning either greater or lesser to each reader, despite the reality that certain poems transform you only at certain times and later seem as limp as used cigarettes, despite the need for edible tones to fit the hunger of your hip sway, there are better poets and there are worse poets. You lose nothing being honest. You gain nothing pouring sand into your ears until one poet’s work is the same grain as another’s. None should codify who is at the top and this is true, but to declare there is no top is to deny the sweep of a line clearly visible and easily followed when one reads words magnetic versus words synthetic, bland, and full of atrophy.