Monthly Archives: April 2009

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The words in the mental cupboard


Children are to be offered lessons on how to speak English formally amid fears that many are suffering from “word poverty”, it has been reported. But how many words do people tend to know and use?

via The words in the mental cupboard | BBC NEWS

+Note: With all the things I have to worry about now, WORD POVERTY is going to keep me up at nights…

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Legal Proverb:


“When the facts are against, you argue the law. When the law is against you, argue the facts. When the law and the facts are both against you, pound the table.”

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RIP: Bette Davis


betty davis lighting cigarette beyond the forest

“Acting should be bigger than life. Scripts should be bigger than life. It should all be bigger than life.”

— Betty Davis

(who would have been 101 today…miss you)

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BEWARE: Dating a Writer is Dangerous!


For good reasons, one should never date someone who calls themselves a writer. More often than not, they will make you into a story. For them it is a natural outcropping of the old adage – ‘write what you know’ – so does this mean writers should never date? Or only that screwed up writers or people should never date? Continue reading →

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RILKE: Sadnesses we can die from


“The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise; like diseases that are treated superficially and foolishly, they just withdraw and after a short interval break out again all the more terribly; and gather inside us and are life, are life that is unlived, rejected, lost, life that we can die of.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke

Letters to a Young Poet

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The Poem that Can’t Be Written


By Lawrence Raab

is different from the poem
that is not written, or the many
that are never finished—those boats
lost in the fog, adrift
in the windless latitudes,
the charts useless, the water gone.
In the poem that cannot
be written there is no danger,
no ponderous cargo of meaning,
no meaning at all. And this
is its splendor, this is how
it becomes an emblem,
not of failure or loss,
but of the impossible.
So the wind rises. The tattered sails
billow, and the air grows sweeter.
A green island appears.
Everyone is saved.

via The Poem that Can’t Be Written | The New Yorker