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I want to dream of a monologue that I give myself, while reciting these lines that will leave me with goosebumps all over: "Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I'd be languished. I gave birth to my infinite being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps."

i am reading something that is sifting and which is shape-shifting of it's own, and i can't be hyperaware of what the introduction told me, on how, "what we have here, is anti-literature, a kind of primitive, a verbal CAT scan of a man's anguished soul."

I am finding it so hard to move past the grip each word, on each page is having.
when a dalit woman concieves, she doesn't merely give birth to sons or daughters, she begets hope and, atoms those one day, brick by brick, blast the cruel tower of caste

I have just landed on the 7th poem marked serially. And I have goosebumps! The kind of power sowed and reaped in the words here:

"I am the sapling of the tree of an ointment invented by my ancestors to cure the eternal wound of caste in this country. Water me with compassion and forgiveness of your womanhood, and kill the caste inside you. Let us grow together."

By the end, I realized this book was a love letter to her own internal movement, rhythm, and spirituality(as she called it, not, the other). It is a vibrant exploration of her gusto, her foxy takes on life, and her Provincetown-her living definition of heaven, shaped entirely by the simple, profound act of being alive.

Let this sink in:
"He was, of course, a piece of the sky. His eyes said so. This is not fact; this is the other part of knowing something, when there is no proof, but neither is there any way toward disbelief. Imagine lifting the lid from a jar and finding it filled not with darkness but with light. Bird was like that. Startling, elegant, alive."

No! I am not okay. She didn't have children of her own, but this bird story and how fond "m" and her grew of it, is absolutely breaking my heart.

To be as curious as she is, is a true gift. I am constantly amazed by her curiosity and inquisitiveness. And the best part is, while naviagting the questions, how gently does she know, how to hold one's hands.

forgot to mention, oliver did a number on the erotica of a spider mating and laying eggs too. just saying.

forgive me, father, for i have taken serious delight in the hunting of a spider; a spider that preyed upon a cricket. mary oliver made it feel like a cinematic experience. i never imagined, i would feel such intense suspense reading about a spider ensnaring its prey. i’m right back to being that kid passionately glued to the discovery channel.

I have been stealing rogue minutes the entire day to dye myself in the shade of the brilliance of this book, and it is only turning out to be a gift.

Never thought I would know this much about Poe

Three golden rules of life that Mary Oliver was gifted from her considerable greats:
1. to observe with passion
2. to think with patience
3. to live always caringly.

what an exquisite flora and fauna ride, i have had with her. man she can export me to anywhere, i will go. i need so desperately, so badly, a moving picture adaptation with her voice in the background, of this book!

celebrating for myself, for i made it through the YUMMY SECTION-1 !!!!!!!

Dare I say, this book might make me re-consider what I do just very much on the border-edge, and I do not mean that stoically: "Certainly there is within each of us a self that is neither a child, nor a servant of the hours. It is a third self, occasional in some of us, tyrant in others. This self is out of love with the ordinary; it is out of love with time. It has a hunger for eternity."

I know, I am far from done with this book. But I hate the fact that the pages will reach its eventual end.

I am practically not okay which this much movement inside of me??? Like, what do you mean by this:
"Each form sets a tone, enables a destiny, strikes a note in the universe unlike any other. How can we ever stop looking? How can we ever turn away?"

Two goldmine of a life advice, anyone might need:
1. You must not ever stop being whimsical.
2. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.

how i am sincerely smiling at the expense of my heart finding the most perfect words: "And this is what I learned: that the world’s otherness is antidote to confusion, that standing within this otherness—the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books—can re-dignify the worst-stung heart."

"Humility is the prize of the leaf-world. Vainglory is the bane of us, the humans."

i have learnt so much in just these four pages that it feels like she is sitting right with me transfusing the words in my stream of conciousness of being alive, and how delectable is that feeling. how precious, is her writing.

I just finished The Meek One, or did it finish me?
I am onto Bobok before I finish off with the last story in it.
But dostoyevsky really said, you are screaming with me into the void with me. But I do have a feeling, the chronology/sequence should be reversed because the amount of monologue torture I went through to discover inertia at the end of it. I will happily re-visit the dream that makes me dream of humanity.

The way he writes.
And its almost like you know what will happen,
yet you stick to this journey with him and his placing of words and the psyche of it all.
What do you not have up your sleeve, Mr. Dostoyevsky?

The tension. The drama. Goodness. But something terribly wrong for him to write somethings, but I guess he was writing for a character, and we know the tyranny of it all anyways.

"Youth is always magnanimous, if only ever so slightly and ever so distortedly."

Want to put a wall mural of the beauty that is contained within a dream manifesto written amidst this starting few 30 pages.

Dear dostoyevsky, oh how you love the world. But more so, how you have always wanted to love humanity. I am thinking of you and your dear heart.

Thank you for dreaming this dream, because like you, i am a ridiculous man