Anne Carson Quotes
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Blessed be they whose lives do not taste of evilbut if some god shakes your houseruin arrivesruin does not leaveit comes tolling over the generationsit comes rolling the black night salt up from the ocean floorand all your thrashed coasts groan.
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To live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.
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I started to learn Greek when I was in high school, the last year of high school, by accident, because my teacher knew Greek and she offered to teach me on the lunch hour, so we did it in an informal way, and then I did it at university, and that was the main thing of my life.
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There is no person without a world.
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Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing.
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The Greek language seems different than other languages. I'm not the only person to think this. Usually, I come up with some kind of dopey metaphor for why it's different. But it seems, somehow, more original, more like being in the morning of language.
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He was trying to fit this Herakles onto the one he knew.
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We participate in the creation of the world by decreating ourselves.
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We're talking about the struggle to drag a thought over from the mush of the unconscious into some kind of grammar, syntax, human sense; every attempt means starting over with language. Starting over with accuracy.
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THE PRESOCRATIC PROBLEM [all snap flags] Parmenides named his gun The Hot Power of the Stars. His gun was one, uncreated, imperishable, timeless, changeless, perfect, spherical. Spherical was the problem.
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Simply do something else and return to it later to find the problem wasn't a problem at all. Ruptures almost always lead to a stronger project.
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As Sokrates tells it, your story begins the moment Eros enters you. That incursion is the biggest risk of your life. How you handle it is an index of the quality, wisdom, and decorum of the things inside you. As you handle it you come into contact with what is inside you, in a sudden and startling way. You perceive what you are, what you lack, what you could be.
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It takes practice to shave the skin off the light.
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I never had much education in English poetry as such.
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Now every mortal has pain and sweat is constant, but if there is anything dearer than being alive, it's dark to me. We humans seem disastrously in love with this thing (whatever it is) that glitters on the earth-- we call it life. We know no other. The underworld's a blank and all the rest just fantasy.
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I do think that something of the effect I have on people is to put everything on an edge where they're both infatuated with a kind of charmingness happening in the person or in the writing, and also flatly terrified by a revelation or acceptance of revelation that's almost happening, never quite totally happening.
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Existence will not stop until it gets to beauty.
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Those nights lying alone are not discontinuous with this cold hectic dawn. It is who I am.
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We humans seem disastrously in love with this thing (whatever it is) that glitters on the earth-- we call it life.
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Under the seams runs the pain.
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Desire is no light thing.
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Poetry - poiesis means a thing made.
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The self forms at the edge of desire, and a science of self arises in the effort to leave that self behind.
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Making is always a slightly hopeful thing because once you've made something, it'll - the world will be different.