Star-gazer by Louis Macneice

Forty-two years ago (to me if to no one else
The number is of some interest) it was a brilliant starry night
And the westward train was empty and had no corridors
So darting from side to side I could catch the unwonted sight
Of those almost intolerably bright
Holes, punched in the sky, which excited me partly because
Of their Latin names and partly because I had read in the textbooks
How very far off they were, it seemed their light
Had left them (some at least) long years before I was.

And this remembering now I mark that what
Light was leaving some of them at least then,
Forty-two years ago, will never arrive
In time for me to catch it, which light when
It does get here may find that there is not
Anyone left alive
To run from side to side in a late night train
Admiring it and adding noughts in vain. 

Quote by Faulkner

“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t (sic) know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why. He is completely amoral in that he will rob, borrow, beg, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done….The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”

—William Faulkner

Paul Bergon  Autochrome, circa 1910

Quote by Alice Bolin

“When a cop kills an unarmed man, it is because he senses his power being threatened by fear that he believes he should never have to feel. When a man kills his ex-girlfriend because she leaves him, he is saying the same thing: shame and sadness are feelings I should not have. Honor killings, as it turns out, are as American as apple pie.” 
― Alice Bolin, Dead Girls: Essays on Surviving American Culture

The Naming of Cats by T.S. Eliot

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey —
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter —
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkstrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum —
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover —
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

Turning to love

“Writing is really just a matter of writing a lot, writing consistently and having faith that you'll continue to get better and better. Sometimes, people think that if they don't display great talent and have some success right away, they won't succeed. But writing is about struggling through and learning and finding out what it is about writing itself that you really love.” 

― Laura Kasischke

from Writing Notebook

Boy: You're using me.

Girl: What?

Boy (looks at the clock): I get an hour or two, then you go.

Girl: What's wrong with that?

Boy: Where do you go when you leave here?

Girl: Nowhere. I drive. I just drive.

Book Quotes I Love

“Our memories are like a city: we tear some structures down, and we use rubble of the old to raise up new ones. Some memories are bright glass, blindingly beautiful when they catch the sun, but then there are the darker days, when they reflect only the crumbling walls of their derelict neighbours. Some memories are buried under years of patient construction; their echoing halls may never again be seen or walked down, but still they are the foundations for everything that stands above them.” 
                                            from The City's Son by Tom Pollack

Emily Bronte quote

'I've dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they've gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind.' – Emily Brontë

Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.  Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—

They are gone.  They are gone to feed the roses.  Elegant and curled

Is the blossom.  Fragrant is the blossom.  I know.  But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.

Building a Mystery (lyrics) Sarah McLachlan

You come out at night
That's when the energy comes
And the dark side's light
And the vampires roam
You strut your rasta wear
And your suicide poem
And a cross from a faith that died
Before Jesus came
You're building a mystery

You live in a church
Where you sleep with voodoo dolls
And you won't give up the search
For the ghosts in the halls
You wear sandals in the snow
And a smile that won't wash away
Can you look out the window
Without your shadow getting in the way?

You're so beautiful
With an edge and charm
But so careful
When I'm in your arms

'Cause you're working
Building a mystery
Holding on and holding it in
Yeah you're working
Building a mystery
And choosing so carefully

You woke up screaming aloud
A prayer from your secret god
You feed off our fears
And hold back your tears, oh
Give us a tantrum
And a know it all grin
Just when we need one
When the evening's thin

You're a beautiful
A beautiful fucked up man
You're setting up your
Razor wire shrine

'Cause you're working

Building a mystery

Holding on and holding it in

Yeah you're working

Building a mystery

And choosing so carefully

Oh, you're working, 

Building a mystery

Holding on and holding it in

Yeah you're working

Building a mystery

And choosing so carefully

Yeah, you're working,

Building a mystery,

Holding on and holding it in,

Oh yeah you're working,

Building a mystery

And choosing so carefully

You're building a mystery.

Happy 200th Birthday, Emily Bronte

https://melindajaneharrisonworld.tumblr.com/post/176453979756/tolrone-wuthering-heights

Today is Emily Bronte's 200th birthday. Happy Birthday and thank you Emily, for Wuthering Heights.

How I feel, too

https://melindajaneharrisonworld.tumblr.com/post/176312555336/i-was-fascinated-by-strangers-wanted-to-know-what

Something very French in the Work in Progress

Gaspard Ulliel

I've never written characters like the ones I am writing now. It's risky business. But hey, at this stage, I am going for broke.  When I get up in the morning this is the first thing I want to see, to remind me of how far I have come and how far I have to go. I wish I could tell you his name, what he likes for breakfast, what he does when he's bored. I wish I could share things, but it's too early for that. One day....

Update: Ulliel was always the image for my French boy in my WIP. This year, 2022, he died in an accident while skiing in the French Alps. I was stunned. Literally. And I use that latter word because I have faced so much loss over the years. We are talking 'people loss,' a slew of them. And to hear of his death crushed me because it was another loss, though I did not know him at all. He was so young and a father and a son, and a friend to others, and it was just terrible news and I knew how his family and friends felt. At first I thought I can't look at this photo on my WIP art board every day knowing he is dead. I can't do that. It doesn't matter that  I chose him years ago and studied French while looking at his films. I felt pain. And maybe that pain had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with those I lost.  I changed my mind, but then I changed my mind again. I can't look at it.

2018 so far

I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat;	250
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.