Mayröcker: “We weep for the other in us ....... a very intimate perceptual network, mixed with holograms of memory, lunatic speech particles, torrents of tears.”

(“Even when we are a thousand miles away from poetry, we still participate in it by that sudden need to scream — the last stage of lyricism.”)

Bachmann: “The leaves were falling, for it was autumn again. Teach him the language of leaves!”

waiting for the Bachmann-Frisch correspondence to be released.

“…I was the most melancholic human being (very leaden). I was painful to behold — even through a guaranteed gold pince-nez.” —Erik Satie

[weather report from Hans Jürgen von der Wense] “Sonnets of the cirrocumulus, occulted script of the winds.”

“Drowning is an unhappy love for music,” writes Hans Jürgen von der Wense.

(“Any and all water is the color of drowning.”)

“Your eyes, your dress, the woods and the moon are all in some conspiracy.” —H.D.

“Then in a moment, in an infinitesimal second, the moment that divides day from dawn, that other moment that divides dawn from morning, perhaps that moment that divides early morning from exact morning, will intercede.” —H.D.

Pizarnik | Akerman “I ask myself what others do to bear being alive. This is something else that it would be good to find out....”

“I love to drink coffee with a sugar cube on my tongue, between my teeth. That’s how I drink coffee. I don’t like to put any sugar in the coffee.” —Chantal Akerman

[weather report from Anne Carson] “Tuesday I became clouds. Possibly a defensive measure - everyone loves clouds…”

Anne Carson: “You see horses standing in the fields so soaked with emptiness they can’t move…”

“Ontologically speaking, is the sky something or merely what is left over because everything else has edges.” —Anne Carson

Erik Satie’s notebooks are a delight.

“On the other hand, there is reason to believe that the first pot of jam was mysteriously discovered by a child. His parents only learned of the event once the pot was empty — of course.” —Erik Satie

“The first time I used a phonoscope, I examined a middling-sized B flat. I can assure you, I have never seen anything more revolting. I called my servant to have him look.” —Erik Satie

Pizarnik: “Language is empty and nothing seems to have been touched by human hands. They are everybody and I am myself. Deserted world, reflexive words that speak only to themselves. Killing me. I die in dead poems…”

(“I would like to have, around my neck, a drop of water as a locket.”)