“I can live on sunlight falling across little bridges. I can live on the Botticelli-blue cornflower pattern on the out-billowing garments of the attendant to Aphrodite and the pattern of strawberry blossoms and the little daisies in the robe of Primavera. I can live on the doves flying (he says) in cohorts from the underside of the faded gilt of the balcony of Saint Mark’s cathedral and the long corridors of the Pitti Palace. I can gorge myself on Rome and the naked Bacchus and the face like a blasted lightning-blasted white birch that is some sort of Fury. That face on a plaque that is some sort of Fury.” She was standing with the bowl of shelled peas under one arm, dramatically held aloft like some young hydrophyte.
She held the bowl against one hip, stood with one foot elevated. Sunlight fell across the tossed mouse-hair of Hermione tucked short and unimpressive into a moire band of narrow ribbon. Her face was a face of some young Pythian priestess. “And I can live on nothing.”
“A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten on the influx of better thoughts. We should be blessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every accident that befell us.”—Henry David Thoreau
I love you from the sharp tang of the fermentation; in the blissful pulp. Newborn insects, blue. In the unsullied juice, glazed and ductile. Cry that distills the light: through the fissures in fruit trees; under mossy water clinging to the shadows. The papillae, the grottos. In herbaceous dyes, instilled. From the flustered touch. Luster oozing, bittersweet: of feracious pleasures, of play splayed in pulses. Hinge (Wrapped in the night’s aura, in violaceous clamor, refined, the boy, with the softened root of his tongue expectant, touches, with that smooth, unsustainable, lubricity—sensitive lily folding into the rocks if it senses the stigma, the ardor of light—the substance, the arris fine and vibrant—in its ecstatic petal, distended—[jewel pulsing half-open; teats], the acid juice bland [ice], the salt marsh, the delicate sap [Kabbalah], the nectar of the firefly.)
“I’ve become suspicious of the unblemished life. Maybe the heart must be broken, like a child’s prize honeycomb, for the real sweetness to come out. Although something inside us yearns to walk on air, never touching the ground, compassion brings us down to earth. It has been likened to the lotus, whose exquisite, fragrant blossom grows out of the muck and mire.”—Marc Ian Barasch, Field Notes on the Compassionate Life: A Search for the Soul of Kindness
When she’s abandoned her moral center and teachings…when she’s cast aside her facade of propriety and lady-like demeanor…when I have so corrupted this fragile thing and brought out a writhing, mewling, bucking, wanton whore for my enjoyment and pleasure…enticing from within this feral lioness…growling and scratching and biting…taking everything I dish out to her…at that moment she is never more beautiful to me.