Conner Kent? That nerd?? Running a quotes blog? yes.

books, quotes, quotations, poetry, and more!

about and DNI

"Talibus orabat dictis, arasque tenebat, cum sic orsa loqui vates: “Sate sanguine divom, Tros Anchisiade, facilis descensus Averno; noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis; sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras, hoc opus, hic labor est.""

brevis-lux -

With such words, he prayed and held the altar, when the oracle began to speak thusly: "Trojan son of Anchises, having sprung from the blood of the gods, the descent to Avernus is easy; the cold door of Dis is open night and day; to retrace one's steps and emerge into the air above, this is the toil, this is the labor."

Vergil's Aeneid, 6.124-6.129


Her melancholy was like a darkness in her; but when she thought of him it seemed that through the darkness a forked lightning rain.

Mervyn Peake, Titus Groan.


In Vietnamese, the word for missing someone and remembering them is the same: nhớ. Sometimes, when you ask me over the phone, Con nhớ mẹ không? I flinch, thinking you meant, Do you remember me? I miss you more than I remember you.

Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel


"Soles occidere et redire possunt: nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda."

brevis-lux -

"The sun is able to set and return again: for us, when the brief light falls, one never-ending night must be slept."

Catullus 5


brevis-lux -

If someone allowed me to kiss your honey-sweet eyes all the time, Iuventius, then I would kiss them continuously up to three hundred thousand times."

Catullus 48


Priestesses with sacred snakes wrapped around their arms,

Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by P. A. Bien, from “Report To Greco,” publ. c. 1961


I stretched out my hands, holding the falling sun in one hand, and the climbing moon in the other, my silver and gold, my gift from life. My gift of life. My life is a hesitation in time. An opening in a cave. A gap for a word.

Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping


The night was full of vague blackish colors, unglistening, with stars in distant skies that seemed to belong to a different world.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Diaries of a Young Poet


cronusampora -

Love me less, but love me for a long time. Christophe Honoré, Les Chansons d’Amour


the memory of stars,

of estrangement, the lungs

pumping with air

how I take & take

what I cannot give back

Aracelis Girmay, from “First Estrangement”, The Black Maria


But as for now I’m in the center of something that shouts and surges forth. And it’s subtle, like the most intangible reality. As for now, time is how long a thought lasts.

It’s that pure, this contact with the invisible nucleus of reality.

I know what I’m doing here: I’m counting the instants that drip and are thick with blood.

Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life


This is the time in our lives when we lay down the mask, lay down the burden we’ve carried, and go out into the world unguarded and undisguised. As we are. Flawed. Human. Raw and broken in places. And beginning to heal.

Marya Hornbacher, Waiting


The light is golden and the trees are lit from within. In autumn, you feel beloved by the earth, all its inhabitants, for entire afternoons, sometimes.

Ellen Welcker, from “Any Grieving Mammal”


(…) Where do you open?

Where do you carry your dead? There’s no locket

for that—hinged, hanging on a chain that greens

your throat. And the dead inside you, don’t you

hear them breathing? You must have a hole

they can press their gray lips to. If you open—

when you open—will we find them folded inside?

In what shape? I mean what cut shape is made

whole by opening? I mean besides the heart.

Maggie Smith, from “Heart“


It rains and keeps raining. My soul is damp from hearing it. (…) An anguished cold holds my poor heart in its icy hands.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet


I have seen for some time

how everything is changing.

Something rises and acts

and kills and causes grief.

From one time to the next

all the gardens now are not the same;

from the yellowing to the

golden slow decay;

how long that path has been.

Now I stand amid emptiness

and gaze down all avenues.

Almost to the distant oceans

I can see the solemn ponderous

relentlessly denying sky.

Rainer Maria Rilke, “End of Autumn”, The Book of Images


“The folklore among knitters is that everything handmade should have at least one mistake so an evil sprit will not become trapped in the maze of perfect stitches. A missed increase or decrease, a crooked seam, a place where the tension is uneven - the mistake is a crack left open to let in the light. The evil sprit I want to usher out of my knitting and my life is at once a spirit of laziness and of over-achieving. It’s that little voice in my head that says, I won’t even try this because it doesn’t come naturally to me and I won’t be very good at it.”

Kyoko Mori, ‘Yarn’


The moan of doves in immemorial elms,

And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, from The Princess - Come Down, O Maid


Moss covered paths between scarlet peonies, pale jade mountains fill your

rustic windows. I envy you, drunk with flowers, Butterflies swirling in your dreams.

Qian Qi 錢起 - Tang Dynasty


Time will break what doesn’t bend — even time. Even you.

Kaveh Akbar, from “Despite My Efforts Even My Prayers Have Turned into Threats“


Nightfall. Clouds scatter and vanish.

The sky is pure and cold.

Silently the River of Heaven turns in the Jade Vault.

If tonight I do not enjoy life to the full,

Next month, next year, who knows where I will be?

Su Tung-Po (1037–1101)


Let regret and sorrow sleep.

Emily Brontë, Poems of Emily Brontë


speak to you over cities

I speak to you over plains

My mouth is against your ear

The two sides of the walls face

my voice which acknowledges you.

I speak to you of eternity.

O cities memories of cities

cities draped with our desires

cities early and late

cities strong cities intimate

stripped of all their makers

their thinkers their phantoms

Landscape ruled by emerald

live living ever-living

the wheat of the sky on our earth

nourishes my voice I dream and cry

I laugh and dream between the flames

between the clusters of sunlight

And over my body your body extends

the layer of its clear mirror.

Paul Eluard, The Absence


A cold hand squeezes my throat and prevents me from breathing life. Everything is dying in me, even the knowledge that I can dream! I can’t get physically comfortable. Every soft thing I lean against hurts my soul with sharp edges.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet


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