Lawrence Raab > Quotes

“Every day / a few billion histories fail to occur.”
― Lawrence Raab, The History of Forgetting

“I’d like to tell you
not to be afraid, but I’ve lost

my voice. I’m not used to all these
legs, these claws, these feelers.
It’s the old story, predictable
as fallout—the rearrangement of molecules.
And everyone is surprised
and no one understands

why each man tries to kill
the thing he loves, when the change
comes over him. So now you know
what I never found the time to say.
Sweetheart, put down your flamethrower.
You know I always loved you.”
― Lawrence Raab

“We want to forget
until we start to forget.

from the poem Regret”
― Lawrence Raab, The History of Forgetting

“Then it’s not the past
I yearn for, but the idea
of a time when everything important
has not yet happened:

— Lawrence Raab, from section 5 of “The Uses of Nostalgia,” What We Don’t Know About Each Other (Penguin, 1993)”
― Lawrence Raab, What We Don't Know About Each Other

“Yet how ordinary so many strange things turn out to be, like dreams that end up disappointing us by making sense.”
― Lawrence Raab, Mistaking Each Other for Ghosts

“The Great Poem"

The great poem is always possible.
Think of Keats and his odes.
But we shouldn’t have to be dying,

What I’m writing now is not
the great poem. After a few lines
I could tell. It may not even be

a particularly good poem, although
it’s too early to decide about that.
Keep going, I say. See what happens.

But trying hard is one of the problems.
since it shows in the lines as a strain
or struggle that reminds the reader

too much of the writer, whereas
most readers want to listen alone.
The great poem, I think, will arrive

when I no longer care. Perhaps
I’ll have abandoned art altogether,
and I won’t even want to write

the poem down. But then I’ll remember
what I once would have given
for this moment, and I’ll go back

to my desk. And I’ll write the poem
as though I were another person,
someone I will never be again.”
― Lawrence Raab, The History of Forgetting

“The Garden"

We were in the garden talking
about disbelief, how it was
a practical choice—you couldn’t
just decide to believe

as no one could resolve
to fall in love.
We were talking about the past,
the hopes we had for it.

Then there were skies of all kinds,
nights into which we disappeared
leaving the rest for later.
Things were different then, we said,

as if that were not always the truth …
Around us trees
were moving, and the flowers
were ghosts of themselves in the moonlight.
Inside, cool breezes unfolded

throughout the house, room after room,
like a sadness without explanation
although—we might have said it—
just as much like joy.”
― Lawrence Raab, What We Don't Know About Each Other