Willow Booker > Willow's Quotes

“How does distance look?" is a simple direct question. It extends from a spaceless within to the edge of what can be loved.”
― Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

“If prose is a house, poetry is a man on fire running quite fast through it".”
― Anne Carson

“To feel anything
deranges you. To be seen
feeling anything strips you
naked. In the grip of it
pleasure or pain doesn’t
matter. You think what
will they do what new
power will they acquire if
they see me naked like
this. If they see you
feeling. You have no idea
what. It’s not about them.
To be seen is the penalty.”
― Anne Carson, Red Doc>

“This is the perfume of March: rain, loam, feathers, mint. Every morning and afternoon, I drink fresh mint tea sweetened with honey.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Love in the Afternoon

“In March the soft rains continued, and each storm waited courteously until its predecessor sunk beneath the ground.”
― John Steinbeck, East of Eden

“POOR MARCH
It is the HOMELIEST month of the year. Most of it is MUD, Every Imaginable Form of MUD, and what isn't MUD in March is ugly late-season SNOW falling onto the ground in filthy muddy heaps that look like PILES of DIRTY LAUNDRY.”
― Vivian Swift, When Wanderers Cease to Roam: A Traveler's Journal of Staying Put

“March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed by a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of moonshine.”
― L.M. Montgomery

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

“Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.”
― Emily Dickinson

“That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.”
― Emily Dickinson

“There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.”
― Emily Dickinson

“They say that God is everywhere and yet we always think of him as somewhat of a recluse.”
― Emily Dickinson

“I can wade Grief—
Whole Pools of it—
I'm used to that—
But the least push of Joy
Breaks up my feet—
And I tip—drunken—
Let no Pebble—smile—
'Twas the New Liquor—
That was all!”
― Emily Dickinson, Final Harvest: Emily Dickinson's Poems