A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.
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Anand Thakur
A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.
ANNE CARSON
You remember too much,” my mother said to me recently. “Why hold onto all that?” And I said, “where can I put it down?
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The words we read and words we write never say exactly what we mean. The people we love are never just as we desire them. The two symbols never perfectly match. Eros is in between.
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I never really got over the fun of making letters.
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One of the principle qualities of pain is that it demands an explanation.
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They were two superior eels at the bottom of the tank and they recognized each other like italics.
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When an ecstatic is asked the question, What is it that love dares the self to do? she will answer: Love dares the self to leave itself behind, to enter into poverty.
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Making is always a slightly hopeful thing because once you’ve made something, it’ll – the world will be different.
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All myth is an enriched pattern, a two-faced proposition, allowing its operator to say one thing and mean another, to lead a double life.
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The man has a theory. The woman has hipbones. Here comes Death.
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Myths are stories about people who become too big for their lives temporarily, so that they crash into other lives or brush against gods. In crisis their souls are visible.
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The self forms at the edge of desire, and a science of self arises in the effort to leave that self behind.
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Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.
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Up against another human being one’s own procedures take on definition.
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Caught between the tongue and the taste.
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A refugee population is hungry for language and aware that anything can happen.
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