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Quote by Krystelle Bamford

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Idle Grounds

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Krystelle Bamford

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“If thou must love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only. Do not say, 'I love her for her smile—her look—her way Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'— For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry: A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. If Thou Must Love Me”

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Book:Sonnets from the Portuguese
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“At funerals, things are different. Everything is there—shrimp and red sauce both, Lemons, too, all these things being very thoughtful, even the big, blue cloth napkins. Fancy tongue sandwiches and family-recipe cilantro salsas and olives and pecans, And everybody there is personally concerned that you should have it all, Even though you are just a visitor. Eat up, son, they say. They say it repeatedly. It is curious how you seem to be everybody’s son on these occasions. They don’t want you to just eat a little, either--Look at that ham. Have some more, they say. There’s plenty. And they mean it. That’s what’s left to do at a funeral—make sure people get their fill. There’s nothing else left, once all the food is there and the people have arrived. That’s the business of it all. Anything else comes later. Missing a person, That takes a while. It’s not something you have to worry about now. Nobody else is hungry, so I come prepared. It never fails. People can be counted on At times like these. I tell you, it always turns out to be my lucky day.”

DeathGriefFoodEatingHungerFuneralsWakes
Book:Not Go Away Is My Name
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“Bowls and dishes have to be ferried to and from the table, plates filled and passed, sauce boats replenished. extra bread brought, dishes explained, recipes summarized -- not to mention arguments adjudicated, reminiscences patiently listened to, glances exchanged, eyebrows raised. . . all the choreography of a social event that no menu can possibly reflect. Every meal is a world of its own, from which we emerge, however subtly, changed.”

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Book:Immoveable Feast: A Paris Christmas
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