Republic of the Imagination: Is/Not →
republicoftheimagination: By Margaret Atwood Love is not a profession genteel or otherwise sex is not dentistry the slick filling of aches and cavities you are not my doctor you are not my cure, nobody has that power, you are merely a fellow/traveller Give up this medical concern, buttoned, attentive, …
theflyinglota: After finishing our assigned readings from the Subaltern Studies Collective this week, we were complaining about how a particular piece by Spivak was incomprehensible. Our professor then proceeded to treat us to an amusing anecdote where one of Spivak’s students had complained about much the same in her class: Spivak’s reponse? “Don’t fetishize clarity!”
syntaxandsemantics: her eyes were the clink of empty glasses being bussed back to the bar, his voice was the dripping condensation puddled on sticky counters, mopped dry with dirty rags. they met but they don’t remember.
For The Dead by Adrienne Rich
tenfiretrucks: I dreamed I called you on the telephone to say: Be kinder to yourself but you were sick and would not answer The waste of my love goes on this way trying to save you from yourself I have always wondered about the left-over energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill long after the rains have stopped or the fire you want to go to bed from but cannot leave, burning-down but not...
Sometimes I’ve found a poem hiding itself in the middle of something that ended...– Charles Tomlinson (via theparisreview)
Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.– Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via larmoyante)
Republic of the Imagination: The Map →
republicoftheimagination: By Elizabeth Bishop Land lies in water; it is shadowed green. Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges where weeds hang to the simple blue from green. Or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under, drawing it unperturbed around itself? Along…
Poetry requires deliberate movement in its direction, a filament of faith in its...– C.D. Wright, from “My American Scrawl” (via poetryeater)
From the archives -- Bhagat Singh
fuckyeahsouthasia: Bhagat Singh’s letter to his sister in Banaras in his own handwriting. Urdu poems in Bhagat Singh’s handwriting. Includes Ghalib’s “yeh naa thi kismat humari”. Bhagat Singh’s letter to Sukhdev on love and sacrifice of a revolutionary. http://www.marxists.org/archive/bhagat-singh/1929/04/05.htm Notes taken by Bhagat Singh in jail. ...
What I saw wasn’t a ghost. It was simply—myself. I can never forget how...– Haruki Murakami - The Mirror (via murakamistuff)
When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness —...– Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via bookmania)