Carole Maso Quotes
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This book is an invention, an act of the imagination, and in no way should be mistaken for reality, the place where much good invention originates.
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I weep flowers, I weep song, I bleed.
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Huddled around the fire of the alphabet.
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One of the strangest things about writing well is that it requires two different zones in the brain - rigor and recklessness - simultaneously.
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You think an essay should have a hypothesis, a conclusion, should argue points. You really do bore me.
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Your head is flowers, your body the body of a deer, pierced
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But sometimes even the sky is dangerous. I look up and see your face in the stars.
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The Voice of the River is a beautifully written, deeply inclusive and profoundly spirtual work of art. I am moved by its great genorosity above all, and its wisdom. It is a gift like no other.
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You were a painting by Matisse, but you took sleeping pills.
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The future will be gorgeous and reckless, and words, those luminous charms, will set us free again.
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Truth be told, there is not one day that goes by when I don't fall in love with someone, with something.
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As if thought were not our most passionate, our most ardent aspect.
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So little goes with the body of a man. So much is left behind.
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In the calm violence of your being, desire.
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How I love them. How good they are. They endure endless hours of me talking about the future. They keep me near and at the same time bid me farewell. That is what real love is.
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Here, we turn everything into art.
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Deliriously imagined, The Mothering Coven is a work of wonder. Joanna Ruocco arrives: marvelous, and fully sprung!
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It's an honor and privilege to be next to the great mysteries, and that's what I get to do every day. Why are we here? How beautiful the Earth is. Whatever it is, large and small. There's so much that's beautiful and moving and sad, to experience that and find shapes for it, to deeply enter that meditative space. There's nothing like it. Everything else seems so pale.
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After sex, after coffee, after everything there is to be said - The hovering and beautiful alphabet as we form our first words after making love. And somehow I'm still alive.
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If writing is language and language is desire and longing and suffering . . . then why when we write, when we make shapes on paper, why then does it so often look like the traditional, straight models, why does our longing look for example like John Updike's longing?