Toni Morrison On Books And Questions

2DCBAE5E-FBAB-41A5-87D0-384117FC2FDD.jpegToni Morrison (February 18, 1931 -)

My books are always questions for me. What if? How does it feel to …? Or what would it look like if you took racism out? Or what does it look like if you have the perfect town, everything you ever wanted? And so you ask a question, put it in a time when it would be theatrical to ask, and find the people who can articulate it for you and try to make them interesting. The rest of it is all structure, how to put it together.

Kahlil Gibran On Being Known

690C036E-57F6-476A-9222-A9B1CE4E1A40Kahlil Gibran (January 6, 1883–April 10, 1931) 

We all want that little light in us to be taken from under the bushel. The first poet must have suffered much when the cave-dwellers laughed at his mad words. He would have given his bow and arrows and lion skin, everything he possessed, just to have his fellow-men know the delight and the passion which the sunset had created in his soul. And yet, is it not this mystic pain — the pain of not being known — that gives birth to art and artists?

Sandy Denny On Time

22E050A7-6661-48F7-81DC-2274E0F161DAAlexandra (Sandy) Elene MacLean Denny (January 06, 1947 –  April 21, 1978)

Across the morning sky, all the birds are leaving
How can they know that it’s time to go?
Before the winter fire, I’ll still be dreaming
I do not count the time
Who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?
Sad, deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving
Ah, but then you know that it’s time for them to go
But I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving
For I do not count the time
Who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?
But I am not alone as long as my love is near me
And I know it will be so till it’s time to go
All through the winter, until the birds return in spring again
I do not fear the time
Who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?

 

4e1af-img_2438Listen to Nina Simone sing “Who Knows Where The Time Goes” here.

Carl Gustav Jung On Inner Experiences

0ed44-img_1873Carl Gustav Jung (July 26, 1875 –  June 06, 1961)

Recollection of the outward events of my life has largely faded or disappeared. But my encounters with the “other” reality, my bouts with the unconscious, are indelibly engraved upon my memory. Outward circumstances are no substitute for inner experience. I can understand myself only in the light of inner happenings. It is these that make up the singularity of my life. That is why I speak chiefly of inner experiences, amongst which I include my dreams and visions.

Lucie Brock Broido On Freedom Of Speech

F2390138-B3F2-433B-8EC5-9A135AEC2A3ALucie Brock Broido (May 22, 1956 – March 6, 2018)

If my own voice falters, tell them hubris was my way of adoring you.
The hollow of the hulk of you, so feverish in life, cut open,

Reveals ten thousand rags of music in your thoracic cavity.
The hands are received bagged and examination reveals no injury.

Winter then, the body is cold to the touch, unplunderable,
Kept in its drawer of old-world harrowing.

Teeth in fair repair. Will you be buried where; nowhere.

Your mouth a globe of gauze and glossolalia.
And opening, most delft of blue, Your heart was a mess—

A mob of hoofprints where the skittish colts first learned to stand,
Catching on to their agility, a shock of freedom, wild-maned.

The eyes have hazel irides and the conjunctivae are pale,

With hemorrhaging. One lung, smaller, congested with rose smoke.
The other, filled with a swarm of massive sentimentia. I adore you more.
I know
The wingspan of your voice, whole gorgeous flock of harriers,

Cannot be taken down. You would like it now, this snow, this hour.
Your visitation here tonight not altogether unexpected.

The night-laborers, immigrants all, assemble here, aching for to speaking, Longing for to work.