[b]Jeanette Winterson
A precise emotion seeks a precise expression.[/b]
Good luck with that.
I sat at the back, listening to the music or mumbling through the service. I’m never tempted by God, but I like his trappings.
And who among hasn’t thought that?
It seems to me that being the right size for your world…is a valuable clue to learning how to live.
Though not necessarily from your own point of view.
The end of every game is an anti-climax. What you thought you would feel you don’t feel, what you thought was so important isn’t any more. It’s the game that’s exciting.
You confess your exceptions and I’ll confess mine.
A tough life needs a tough language – and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers – a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place.
Or so they tell me.
Pulsar: a dying star spinning under its own exploding anarchic energy, like a lighthouse on speed. A star the size of a city, a city the size of a star, whirling round and round, its death-song caught by a radio receiver, light years later, like a recorded message nobody heard, back-played now into infinity across time. Love and loss.
Does the pulsar know that?