Suddenly, after you die, those friends who never agreed about anything agree about your character.

You stand as rocks stand to which the sea reaches in transparent waves of longing;they are marred, finally;everything fixed is marred.And the sea triumphs,like all that is false,all that is fluent and womanly.

It begins quietly in certain female children: the fear of death, taking as its formdedication to hunger,because a woman's bodyis a grave; it will acceptanything.

At twilight I went into the street. The sun hung low in the iron sky, ringed with cold plumage.If I could write to youabout this emptiness--

You die when your spirit dies. Otherwise, you live.You may not do a good job of it, but you go on--something you have no choice about.

We don't expect to know what Persephone is doing. She is dead, the dead are mysteries.

I remember the word for chair.I want to say--I'm just not interested anymore.I wake up thinking you have to prepare.Soon the spirit will give up--all the chairs in the world won't help you.

We look at the world once, in childhood.The rest is memory

I expected better of two creatures who were given minds: if not that you would actually care for each otherat least that you would understandgrief is distributedbetween you, among all your kind