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"It’s so hard to describe this feeling of really and truly existing and of one’s soul being a real entity that I don’t know what human words could define it. I don’t know if I have a fever, as I feel I do, or if I’ve stopped having the fever of sleeping through life."

The kind of oasis filled reality mirages that his words paint are surreal.

what a fantastic existential dimension has sleep been given by the words of this crazy personality. you know those nights which loom heavy in your mind leading you to think deep, just hear these lines out: "I’m going to life’s bed wide awake, unaccompanied and without peace, in the ebb and flow of my confused consciousness, like two tides in the black night where the destinies of nostalgia and desolation meet."

the absolute crack this guy has instilled in his writing and all includes of how his sleeping makes him feel : like what do you mean, "my faint vision is fringed by a light far away", "the details of my daily life amorphously float on the surface of consciousness", "the quiet foam of a dirty sea, hovers behind my restless eyelids", i "breath, sighing, and my breathing happens - it isn't mine"????

oh how lovely was it to finish dancing with the poetry here in my mind. but i couldn't help but think how fortunate it is for people to read it in original text, and not a translated version. anyways, super pumped up for the remaining book of disquiet now!!(p.s. my poetry exploration has picked up on all the necessary cues, i wanted to before the big read)

just want to say that the peom Tabacaria" (Tobacconist's Shop) is literally gold wrapped in a poem. i so wish that i was able to read Portuguese, just to visit this man's craft in his mother tongue.

Waiting for an ambiguous moment where I can plaster these lines out of my mouth to someone's face, when they say I don't understand why one chooses to write:
"The crisscross thrusts
Of what I feel or don't feel
Dispute in the I I am.
Unknown. They dictate Nothing
To the I I know. I write."

Poem (17.7.14)
"Let's simply have the science of accepting
And, as long as the blood beats in our fountains

The fact he is so aware of the fact of not resisting life but letting it pass through and to be alive and have that fountain pumping. oh so, wonderful <3

you know that feeling when you know you are reading poetry for the pure bliss of going through it, and the book doesn't stop you from feeling that. this feels like that. i am just consciously breezing through the wind of Pessoa's poetry here.

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.