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Quote by Cat Richardson

“I’m tired. The conductor has given me a pass. Maybe she saw into me, that I’m headed to a hotel room alone, to a wedding alone, that I stop myself from speaking more often than not. It’s hard to say that I used to love someone, that now I might love someone else, because I’m a coward.”

Quote by Cat Richardson

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Cat Richardson

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“You're coming home again. what does that mean? Can there be anyone here who still needs you, who would still want to count you as his friend? You're home, you've bought sweet wine to drink with supper, and staring out the window bit by bit You come to see that you're the one who's guilty: the only one. that's fine. thank god for that. or maybe one should say, "thanks for small favors" It's fine that there is no one else to blame, It's fine that you are free of all connections, It's fine that in this world there is no one who feels obliged to love you to distraction. It's fine that no one ever took your arm and saw you to the door on a dark evening, It's fine to walk, alone, in this vast world toward home from the tumultuous railroad station It's fine to catch yourself, while rushing home, mouthing a phrase that's something less than candid; You're suddenly aware that your own soul is very slow to take in what has happened.”

Solitude
Book:Selected Poems, 1968-1996
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“I am beginning to properly enjoy myself, to revel in the fact that when I am walking, nobody knows where I am or what I'm doing. This realisation continued today on the shoreline, as looking and learning about the seaweeds through Ellen Hutchins's curiosity, I began also to appreciate the beauty she saw all around her as she walked - to understand how happy she was here in her solitude.”

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Book:Wild Atlantic Women: Walking Ireland’s West Coast
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“I have done it," she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. A C H I L L E S, it reads. And beside it, P A T R O C L U S. "Go," she says. "He waits for you." In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.”

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Book:The Song of Achilles
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