She had a way with words which quite overran dictionary sobriety: cold spiked words, or hot lava, words separate as individually cast rocks, words hurled with impassioned accuracy to hit the head, the head, the head, the heart, the heart, or words incoherent as a landslide tumbling and knocking, a calamity of articulateness, or words with clean-cut corners stacked together, logic piled up course on course, counterchecked to withstand an earthquake, buttressed against open war, a ziggurat of proof on which someone’s body would soon find itself pinned to the sacrificial stone, fastened wrist and ankle for the fatal axe to fall.

Rodney Hall, The Last Love Story, p. 69

I asked him, are we too few, we of the poet’s vintage? Are there simply too many of the others? Those who do not prize either poetry or flight. Who re-cork the bottle before we’ve finished drinking. Who are a herbicide to the idiosyncratic and a pesticide to difference. Who buy pasteurised verbs and keep them in the fridge, who check their hearts are sterilised, and who, seeing the very liquidity of love, would only handle it with rubber gloves. Who keep the garbage foiled-wrapped for freshness but think a vegetable garden is dirty. Who think the volcanic is just another reason for dusting. Who like to titter but never really laugh. Who buy cut-price emotions, a bargain in the marketplace. Who are sociable enough to gossip but not kind enough for friends. Who keep their cash safe but freely betray a confidence. Who use their own shallowness to scorn profundity. Whose incuriousity closes minds and books and conversations. Who never knew bewilderment or what it was to wonder. Whose self-certainty was as cruelly clean as their curtains, and as surely sterile. Who aimed for the average and scored it competently, who knos ambition but not aspiration. Who opt for the ordinart and would sue a bird for singing.

Jay Griffiths, A Love Letter from a Stray Moon, p. 74-5

An American undertaker once wrote that grief is like falling in love, but backwards.
So now I realise that perhaps the falling in love isn’t all that important.
Perhaps it is the rising to it that counts.

Alice Pung, ‘To the Moment it all Fell Apart’, in Women of Letters, p. 202