“Poets old and young are often asked in interviews when and how they decided to become poets. The assumption is that there was a moment when the poet came to realize there can be no other destiny for him or her but to be a poet. This was followed by an announcement to his or her family; their mother exclaimed, “Oh God, what did we do to deserve this?” while the father ripped out his belt and chased them around the room threatening to kill them. Telling the interviewers that there was no such decision in my case inevitably disappoints them. They want to hear something heroic and inspiring, and I tell them that I was just another high school kid who wrote poems in order to impress a couple of girls, with no other ambition beyond that. They also want to know why I, not being a native speaker of English, didn’t write poems in Serbian, and they wonder how I arrived at the decision to forsake my mother tongue. Again, my answer seems frivolous when I suggest that when poetry is used as an instrument of seduction, the first requirement is that it be understood. No American girl was likely to fall for a guy who reads love poems to her in Serbian as she sips a Coca-Cola.”
—Charles Simic in the preface to “Selected Early Poems”
Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and you watch and you work: You don’t give up.
Anne Lamott (via quote-book)
image macro by rachel brien
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. 1925.
Have you ever said ‘I love you’ and not meant it?
No. Like neon eye shadow, you must never mess around with that stuff.
Caitlin Moran in the Guardian (via fuckyeahcaitlinmoran)
And I’d give up forever to touch you
‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be
And I don’t want to go home right now
And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
‘Cause sooner or later it’s over
I just don’t want to miss you tonight
And I don’t want the world to see me
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Hours (via liquidnight)