(via mommapolitico)
When we think of feminist poetry, we think of Adrienne Rich, one of the most influential poets of the past century, not to mention one of the most important feminist poets. Had she not passed away …
I feel ashamed I didn’t know some of these amazing poets. Looks like I’ll be adding more books to my Powells wishlist tonight…
“There’s such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I’m such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn’t be half so interesting.” - Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
Celebrated Nigerian author Chinua Achebe dies
Today.com: Nigerian novelist and poet Chinua Achebe, whose 1958 novel “Things Fall Apart” addressed colonialism on African society, has died.
Achebe’s breakthrough novel focused on the clash between Western and traditional values. It told the story of colonialism for the first time from an African perspective, and has sold more than 10 million copies and been translated into more than 50 languages.
Nelson Mandela has credited Achebe for bringing “Africa to the rest of the world” and called him “the writer in whose company the prison walls came down.”
Photo: Author Chinua Achebe outside his home at Ogidi, eastern Nigeria, in 1999. (AFP/Getty Images file)
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Literary Birthday - 21 February
Happy Birthday, Anaïs Nin, born 21 February 1903, died 14 January 1977
Anaïs Nin: Top 15 Quotes
- I write emotional algebra.
- The day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
- The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase learned.
- Life shrinks or expands according to one’s courage.
- Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.
- Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.
- Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
- We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.
- The role of the writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.
- How wrong is it for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself.
- Creation which cannot express itself becomes madness.
- People living deeply have no fear of death.
- I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
- We don’t have a language for the senses. Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.
- The only abnormality is the incapacity to love.
Anaïs Nin was a French-Cuban author, based at first in France and later in the United States. The novelist and short story writer gained international fame with her journals. She is well-known for her relationship with Arthur Miller, and his wife, June. Largely ignored in her lifetime, Anaïs Nin is now seen as one of the leading women writers of the 20th Century.
by Amanda Patterson from Writers Write
I love the friction of pens’ rubber fingerrests
draped on my middle right finger
smoothing away the ghosts
of my knuckle.
I love the tickling waves of ambulance alarms
bawling in the empty darkness:
reminders I’m not alone,
close to buckle.
I love the taste of solitary Friday nights
dripping from vintage doll eyes,
adrift bottled messages and
whispers muffled.
I love the kickjump hijinks lodged deep in my chest,
dancing with her miraged cipher
between parenthesis
and furs ruffled.
I love that arduous odor of self-immolation,
of soul-spun infatuation
smoking upward and out,
heady and subtle.
I love the obloquial bitterness my tongue
sprinkles on unsweetened coffee;
the contrary complaint,
the rebuttal.
I love the unknowing, the brain’s self-denial
pouring into stained wineglasses
drunk to conjoin us two,
drunk to uncouple.
I love falling into this space, between you and me,
the hole growing larger by the second,
its borders expanding
so lovely, so supple.
11.23.12, Annie Haden