Their faces I thought were knives. The way they pointed them at me. And waited. A hunter is someone who listens. So hard to his prey it pulls the weapon. Out of his hand and impales. Itself.
I shall not walk your ways again.
I clutch, all language vanished from my mind. We knock each other over in a violent embrace.
When is a pilgrim like a photograph? When the blend of acids and sentiment is just right.
You know who I am. You know my naked power.
Like honey is the sleep of the just.
It is the edge separating my tongue from the taste for which it longs that teaches me what an edge is.
Tragedy is not concerned with human justice. Tragedy is the statement of an expiation, but not he miserable expiation of a codified breach of a local arrangement organized by the knaves for the fools. The tragic figure represents the expiation of the original sin, of the original and eternal sin of... having been born.
He felt Herakles’ hand move on his thigh and Geryon’s head went back like a poppy in a breeze –.
May god favour you with dreams.
Yellow? said Geryon. And he was thinking Yellow! Yellow! Even in dreams he doesn’t know me at all! Yellow!
I suppose you do love me, in your way,” I said to him one night close to dawn when we lay on the narrow bed. “And how else should I love you – in your way?” he asked. I am still thinking about that.
What are we made of but hunger and rage?
You see the sun? – I built that.
He lives in a small country of hope, which is his heart.
No accident of the body can make it stop burning.
Sappho begins with a sweet apple and ends in infinite hunger.
Would this day never end? His eye traveled to the clock at the front of the room and he fell into the pool of his favorite question.
After all why study the past? Because you may wish to repeat it.
Why does motion sadden him?