After a while I crossed out everything and began again, writing very quickly, like you do when you write: ‘You can’t possibly do this you simply don’t know what you’re doing if I were a dog you wouldn’t do this I love you I love you I love you but you’re just a god-damned rotter…’

– Jean Rhys, Voyage in the Dark

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Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

– James Wright

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

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‘And I who have barely started my journey, I start it with a sense of tragedy, guessing toward which lost ocean my steps of life are leading. And madly I take control of the recesses of myself, my ravings suffocate me with so much beauty. I am before, I am almost, I am never. And all of this I won when I stopped loving you.’

– Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

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