forgot to buy cherries this summer.

Hilda Doolittle and nectarines.

[weather report from Virginia Woolf] “…the blue seems eternal…”

reading Blanchot on his birthday, which is also the first day of autumn.

Blanchot: “Very close to me was a great unhappiness, as silent as a real unhappiness can be, beyond all help, unknown, and which nothing could cause to appear.”

“Nowhere was right here. Here was nowhere. Being here one was nowhere, in time and space there was no such thing as anywhere.” —H.D.

Judith Hermann: “…cake belongs to a completely different world, a world lost and gone.”

“…her habit of murmuring isolated lines of poetry to herself and then listening into the void, as if the poems continued there.” —Judith Hermann

“I need reading to produce writing, the latter a creative process that, as most people know, organizes and clarifies thought, unearths and generates new tangents and connections, and leads to other forms of making.” —Moyra Davey

“What does it mean to spend a good part of one’s life absorbed in books? Given that our time is limited, the problem of reading becomes one of exclusion.” —Moyra Davey

Duras | Celan “The forest and music are somehow connected. When I’m afraid of the forest, of course, it’s myself I’m afraid of.” “The forests are very old. The forests are older than man. They have seen the gods die.”

Duras | Llansol “There are still swallows’ nests in the corners of the big beams, there. The swallows fled when we moved into the room. We couldn’t get them to stay.”

“I often remember [Paul Celan’s] nails with earth under them, as if he were burying, unburying, digging. Struggling with the real? Struggling with the dream of language?” —Jean Daive

Jabès telling Jason Weiss why he and Blanchot never met during their yearslong friendship.

Maria Gabriela Llansol: “The bird is undoubtedly Rilke…”

Jabès | C. Wright “How far, tell me, how far, in the odd hours, goes the ocean’s rage?” “All forms of landscape are autobiographical.”