in the beginning William Shakespeare was a baby, and knew absolutely nothing. He couldn't even speak. Mary Ruefle More Quotes by Mary Ruefle More Quotes From Mary Ruefle Once I witnessed a windstorm so severe two 100-year-old trees were uprooted on the spot. The next day, walking among the wreckage, I found the friable nests of birds, completely intact and unharmed on the ground. That the featherweight survive the massive, that this reversal of fortune takes place among us — that is what haunts me. I don’t know what it means. Mary Ruefle two mean years In one sense, reading is a great waste of time. In another sense, it is a great extension of time, a way for one person to live a thousand and one lives in a single lifespan, to watch the great impersonal universe at work again and again That is why I read: I want everything to be okay. That’s why I read when I was a lonely kid and that’s why I read now that I’m a scared adult. Mary Ruefle lonely reading kids A poem is a finished work of the mind, it is not the work of a finished mind. Mary Ruefle finished-work finished mind Now I will give you a piece of advice. I will tell you something that I absolutely believe you should do, and if you do not do it you will never be a witer. It is a certain truth. When your pencil is dull, sharpen it. And when your pencil is sharp, use it until it is dull again. Mary Ruefle advice giving believe We are all one question, and the best answer seems to be love—a connection between things. Mary Ruefle connections seems answers In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to? Mary Ruefle weirdness existence voice I'm lucky enough to occasionally be able to do something I love - write poems - and unlucky enough that what I love confuses and overwhelms me. Mary Ruefle able lucky writing I am convinced that the first lyric poem was written at night, and that the moon was witness to the event and that the event was witness to the moon. For me, the moon has always been the very embodiment of lyric poetry. Mary Ruefle lyric-poetry moon night In life, the number of beginnings is exactly equal to the number of endings ... In poetry, the number of beginnings so far exceeds the number of endings that we cannot even conceive of it. Mary Ruefle exceed equal numbers Art has always been aware of itself as art. Mary Ruefle art I have become an orchid Mary Ruefle orchids memories beach The origins of poetry are clearly rooted in obscurity, in secretiveness, in incantation, in spells that must at once invoke and protect, tell the secret and keep it. Mary Ruefle obscurity protect secret Words have a love for each other, a desire that culminates in poetry. Mary Ruefle desire In the end I would rather wonder than know Mary Ruefle ends knows wonder Something unpronounceable followed by a long silence points out my life is becoming a landscape. Mary Ruefle landscape silence long I hated childhood / I hate adulthood / And I love being alive. Mary Ruefle childhood hate love-is The words secret and sacred are siblings. Mary Ruefle sacred sibling secret the wasting of time is the most personal, most private, most intimate form of conversation with oneself, as well as with another. Mary Ruefle leisure intimate time People, the people we really love, where did they come from? What did we do to deserve them? Mary Ruefle deserve people There is a world which poets cannot seem to enter. It is the world everybody else lives in. And the only thing poets seem to have in common is their yearning to enter this world. Mary Ruefle poet common world
