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Quote by Piper Winifred

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The Path of Grief: & the Imagined Future

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Piper Winifred

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“She could have been there all along, he felt, but for some unknown, unarticulated reason, she had never lifted a finger to put her poems into circulation. It was the thing that had baffled him most about her, for in all other ways Anna was a person who stood up for herself and fought hard for what she believed in, and she knew damned well that her poems were good. Doubts, yes, despairing moments, yes, but what writer or artist doesn’t live in that shifting territory between confidence and self-contempt? The proof was in the fact that she had always shared her poems with him, not because he ever asked her but because she wanted to, either reading them out loud or handing him small sheafs of six or seven at once, and again and again he had responded to her new work by saying it was time to get off her ass and start publishing them, which was invariably followed by a diffident shrug from Anna, who sometimes added “You’re right” or “One of these days” or “We’ll see”, depending on her mood.”

PoetryDespairPoemsWriterSelf Contempt
Book:Baumgartner
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“En kykene olemaan samalla tavalla kiitollinen elämästä, vaan olen aina vailla jotakin ja oloni on jatkuvasti jollain lailla viallinen ja syyllinen, en tiedä mitä tahdon mutta kaipaan silti jotain, en halua perhettä mutten elää yksinkään, minua ei haluta mennä elämässäni eteenpäin mutten osaa jäädä paikoilleni, en millään jaksaisi enää nähdä asioiden eteen vaivaa mutten viitsi heittäytyä toimettomaksikaan, en tahdo ottaa mistään vastuuta mutta haluan silti tuntea itseni tärkeäksi.”

LostDespair
Book:Lehmä synnyttää yöllä
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“Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you would be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing. When one of us dies, they scarcely know where to bury him. Our landlady and the delicatessen man are our mourners, and we leave nothing behind us but a frock-coat and a fiddle, or an easel, or a typewriter, or whatever tool we got our living by. All we have ever managed to do is to pay our rent, the exorbitant rent that one has to pay for a few square feet of space near the heart of things. We have no house, no place, no people of our own. We live in the streets, in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in restaurants and concert halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder.”

LifeLonelinessDespairBig City
Book:O Pioneers!
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