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What sense is there in pain at all - however we contrive it for ourselves as we cast about for ways to bind up the wound between us and God?
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
How I did waste and exhaust my heart.
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
Dum pudeo pereo (as I blush, I die) says an old love song. Blood rushes to the face, at the same time the heart seems to wither on itself and snap,
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
the light is not something you see, exactly. You don't look at it, or breathe, you feel a pressure but you don't look. It is like being in the same room as a man you love. Other people are in the room. He may be smoking a cigarette. And you know you are not strong enough to look at him (yet) although the fact that he is there, silent and absent beside a thin wisp of cigarette smoke, hammers you. You rest your chin on your hand, like a saint on a pillar. Moments elongate and drop. A radiance is hitting your skin from somewhere, every nerve begins to burn outward through the surface, your lungs float in a substance like rage, sweet as rage, no! - don't look.
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
There is no question I am someone starving. There is no question I am making this journey to find out what that appetite is. And I see him free of it, as if he had simply crossed to the other side of the bridge, I see desire set free in him like some ray of mysterious light. Now tell me the truth, would you cross that bridge if you came to it? And where, if you made the grave choice to give up bread, would it take you?
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
For his conversations about action (we have had more than one) are all descriptions of God
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
We live by the waters breaking out of the heart.
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
Are there two ways of knowing the world? a submissive and a devouring way. They end up roughly the same place.
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water
He lives in a small country of hope which is his heart.
Anne Carson, Kinds of Water