[b]Philip Larkin
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.[/b]
Actually, I can’t say I’m sorry enough to my own daughter.
This is the first thing I have understood: Time is the echo of an axe within a wood.
Sounds about right anyway.
I came to the conclusion that an enormous amount of research was needed to form an opinion on anything, and therefore abandoned politics altogether as a topic of conversation.
On the other hand, consider the fucking alternatives.
…books are a load of crap…
Right, every single last one of them.
The poetic impulse is distinct from ideas about things or feelings about things, though it may use these. It’s more like a desire to separate a piece of one’s experience & set it up on its own, an isolated object never to trouble you again, at least not for a bit. In the absence of this impulse nothing stirs.
Maybe not, sure, but can you come any closer?
life is first boredom, then fear.
whether or not we use it, it goes,
and leaves what something hidden from us chose,
and age, and then the only end of age.
Maybe not, sure, but can you come any closer?