…a woman, young rich & independant, quits the civilization of England for a life of hardship in the forests of America that by so doing she may contribute to the happiness of her species—Her health fails in the attempt, yet scarcely restored to that, she is eager to return again to the scene of her labours, & again to spend the flower of her life in arduous struggles & beneficent, self sacrificing devotion to others…
The novel wouldn’t strain the reader’s suspension of disbelief quite as much if the narrator were just a few years older—a short Publishers Weekly review even made the mistake of calling it a “portrait of teenage rebellion”…
In the morning I was taken with a mad desire to ravish the little sleeping cities (be sure that you read little sleeping villes and not little sleeping filles), those that lay to the west in a dying vestige of moonlight, those that lay to the east in the midst of the rising sun, but I controlled myself…
The great men of the Renaissance, both in Italy and England, seem to me an amazing mixture of God and Beast. […] What do their vices matter now? They have left us Mona Lisa.
The heart of any other man would have stopped during those seconds after you had slowly turned your back upon the barrier and yet were still in doubt. Mine is a machine and did not stop; but it did something strange. It put me in suspense, which is the essence of woman’s power over man…
Some of the translations are more academic, aiming mainly to reproduce the content of the poems without bothering too much about the form. Others strive to turn the poems into equivalent works in English, with varying degrees of success. Part of the attraction of a collection like this lies, hopefully, in the unity of its approach, and that is largely due to the collection being one translator’s version of Claus…
Forgive me for jabbering about something you understand better than I do, but I’m so fond of studying the physiology of delusions that I can’t help it…
For one must bear in mind that they can’t steal your style, if you have one. They can as a rule only steal your faults…
Dreams have the following architecture: metallic substance, pursuant laws of mineralness. Vague plunder of booty, plastic robe of pearls. Sesame pirates of our wonderfully dull childhood where a perverted man usurps your surname and wanders the lawn, sprinkling reindeer tears…
Circles and sticks a bird and a tree when will my Miller be wedded to me? Soon, soon. I love you, you hideous little angel. Have you washed your face child? Let me see it—
