Quotes About Expression

The whole thing starts with a single knot and needles. A word and pen. Tie a loop in nothing. Look at it. Cast on, repeat the procedure till you have a line that you can work with. It's a pattern made of relation alone, my patience, my rhythm, till empty bights create a fabric that can be worn, if you're lucky and practised. It's never too late to pick up dropped stitches... (from "How to Knit a Poem")

Poetry has acquired a fluffy image, which is totally at odds with its real nature. It's not pastel colours, but blood-red and black. If you don't obey it as a force in your life, it will tear you to pieces.

Beauty, to me, is about being comfortable in your own skin. That, or a kick-ass red lipstick

Gyáva az a korszak, amely a maga egyidej? képi m?vészetét nem teremti meg, és szerencsétlenek azok a m?vészek, akik ilyen, a nemzeti emlékezetben semmiféle nyomot sem hagyó korszakban élnek.

a remekm?vek jellegzetessége, hogy vannak bennük hibák, hibátlan m?vet csak a középszer?ek tudnak írni.

Creativity, we're told, is not the finding of a thing, but the making something out of it after it is found.

Some people believe that it was while studying the niceties of British and American spelling that the Norwegian artist Edvard Munch painted his masterpiece, 'The Scream'.

Perhaps of all the creations of man, language is the most astonishing.

There is a wonderful Hungarian literature, especially in lyric poetry.

Ah, la necesidad de copiar, de ser lo que admiraba, de apropiármelo.

The most beautiful things cannot be written, unfortunately. Fortunately. We would have to be able to write with our eyes, with wild eyes, with the tears of our eyes, with the frenzy of a gaze, with the skin of our hands.

She alone dares and wishes to know from within, where she, the outcast, has never ceased to hear the resonance of fore-language. She lets the other language speak—the language of 1,000 tongues which knows neither enclosure nor death. To life she refuses nothing. Her language does not contain, it carries; it does not hold back, it makes possible.

This is what writing is: I one language, I another language, and between the two, the line that makes them vibrate; writing forms a passageway between two shores.

This is a book of raw flesh.

To fly/steal is woman's gesture, to steal into language to make it fly.

I Drink. I Burn. I Dream. And Sometimes, I tell Stories !

Every woman has known the torment of getting up to speak. Her heart racing, at times entirely lost for words, ground and language slipping away – that's how daring a feat, how great a transgression it is for a woman to speak – even just open her mouth – in public.

The author of what I describe is not myself, it is the Other. First of all it is you, it is the woman, it is the queen, it is the Child, it is a person who is greater than I and who surpasses you as well, whom you do not know. I am your scribe.

When I write, all those that we don't know we can be write themselves from me, without exclusion, without prediction, and everything that we will be calls us to the tireless, intoxicating, tender-costly-search for love. We will never lack ourselves.

This book is my obliging you. This is a book I never would have dared write, if I did not feel protected and obligated by your madness.

for a week she has been tormented, she burns to write something, gentle warmth emanates from her whole body, but still nothing comes of it. Besides, at the same time she is also busy burning old books, manuals, professional papers, theoretical volumes--because they keep her from doing the one thing that now seems urgent and right to her: shouting her loud hymn of ecstatic pleasure, breaching the tide of the old tongue's hard blare.

I write woman: woman must write woman. And man, man. So only an oblique consideration will be found here of man; it's up to him to say where his masculinity and femininity are at: this will concern us once men have opened their eyes and seen themselves clearly.

Everyone knows that a place exists which is not economically or politically indebted to all the vileness and compromise. That is not obliged to reproduce the system. That is writing. If there is a somewhere else that can escape the infernal repetition, it lies in that direction, where it writes itself, where it dreams, where it invents new worlds.

Beauty will no longer be forbidden.