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Poetry & Literature Post QUOTATIONS and POETRY here that can be used while preparing notes.

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  #21  
Old Thursday, April 24, 2014
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“My name is Thomas,” said the boy.
“Oh, okay, Thomas. I hear you good at math.”
“I’m good at everything.”
“Like what?”
“Civics, geography, English …” His voice trailed off as though
he could have cited many more subjects he was good at.
“You’ll go far, son.”
“And I’ll go deep.”
Frank laughed at the impudence of the eleven-year-old.
“What sport you play?” he asked, thinking maybe the boy
needed a little humility. But Thomas gave him a look so cold
Frank was embarrassed. “I mean …”

“I know what you mean,” he said and, as a counterpoint or
afterthought, he looked Frank up and down and said, “You
shouldn’t drink.”
“Got that right.”
A short silence followed while Thomas placed a folded
blanket on top of a pillow, tucking both under his dead arm. At
the bedroom door he turned to Frank. “Were you in the war?”
“I was.”
“Did you kill anybody?”
“Had to.”
“How did it feel?”
“Bad. Real bad''
“That’s good. That it made you feel bad. I’m glad.”
“How come?”
“It means you’re not a liar.”
“You are deep, Thomas.” Frank smiled. “What you want to
be when you grow up?”
Thomas turned the knob with his left hand and opened the
door. “A man,” he said and left

An except from Home by Toni Morrison
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  #22  
Old Thursday, April 24, 2014
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‘Milord,’ he says (and he means you), ‘the court has before it today a case no less clear
than the task of the executioner. The accused has stretched out his neck beneath the heavy
blade of justice, and there is no question but that this blade must fall. For he has blood on
his hands, Milord. Young blood. The blood of a child. He killed not out of anger, not out of
scheme or plan or design. He killed as a serpent kills that which it does not intend to eat:
he killed out of indifference. He killed because his nature is to kill, because the death of a
child has no meaning for him.
‘There can be no doubt here, Milord; no more facts exist to be found. The balancing of
scales awaits, Milord; redress for wrong is come. Tender humanity screams in fear,
confronted by such a monster, and conscience weeps with rage. The law licks its lips at the
prospect of punishing such a one, and justice can shut its eyes today, so easy is its task.’
The prosecutor pauses, his words leaping about the courtroom like shadows cast by
unsheathed knives in the flickering light of some dying candle.
‘For this, Milord, is his crime …’

Excerpt From Moth Smoke
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  #23  
Old Thursday, April 24, 2014
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On this day i.e. 28 March 1941, Virginia Woolf put on her overcoat, filled its pockets with stones, walked into the River Ouse near her home, and drowned herself.

Here is her last note to her husband she wrote:

'Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that - everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

Woolf's body was not found until 18 April 1941. Her husband buried her cremated remains under an elm in the garden of Monk's House, their home in Rodmell, Sussex.
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Last edited by Sabir Basheer; Friday, April 25, 2014 at 12:57 PM.
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  #24  
Old Sunday, April 27, 2014
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Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt
preserve me from trouble; thou shalt
compass me about with songs of deliverance.
—PSALMS 32:7

A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
—WORDSWORTH

Extracted from ''Concealed in Death '' by J.D.Robb
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  #25  
Old Friday, September 26, 2014
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Wordsworth: A great poet of nature.
“For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often times,
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturb me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting sun,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of meadows and the woods
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise.
In nature and the language of sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.”
“Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey.”
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  #26  
Old Saturday, October 10, 2015
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Default life is not a bed of roses

"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions".
- (Hamlet Quote Act IV, Scene V).
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  #27  
Old Wednesday, October 21, 2015
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Lord of the Flies by William Golding

"He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one’s waking life was spent watching one’s feet."
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  #28  
Old Monday, November 09, 2015
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“I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do.
I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me,
which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld,
or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.”

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre.
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  #29  
Old Friday, July 28, 2017
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Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.
The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.
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