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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
Dante and Hopkins named it lavishly: Christ’s vita nuova, shared to Easter in us; Ignatius of Loyola called it: magnanimity . . . How could we then, receiving, hoard or dispense it stintingly, like Scrooge before his Christmas haunting?
You open the atlas and run your fingers along the edges of continents, climb mountains, trace valleys, pause at coastlines of sand and wave. This is where you have been and this, fingers arched, is where you want to go. Death is too faint to be seen. Though you know it’s there, the undiscovered country.
‘The loss of memory by a nation is also a loss of its conscience.’ As the loss of conscience grows with each succeeding generation, one day righting the boat on the sea of forgetfulness will become impossible. In the end, what people don’t know, they won’t miss.
While its virtues are ubiquitously / touted and near-idolized / as advantages in efficiency, / improved contact rapidity, / and enhanced global connectivity, / it takes but one malfunction, / not to mention piracy, / to wake us up to see / the cost is very high for / an increasing faith in / and dependency on / messianic promises and marvels
I don’t expect to find the leaves of a plant with your name formed by the veins. No god will have gifted you the future as a flower when flowers are losing their footholds.
It's hard for a guy to cry endlessly and helplessly. It is. Some remote part of you shouts Man, get it together, this is totally beyond the bounds. But I couldn't stop. (From 2018)
Some people pray in church, some pray alone, some share their prayer through song, and others use poems as prayer. Each carries its own line of faith that they believe unites them with something outside themselves. This union is reached through words written and words said.
In The Fickle Pendulum, Paul Scully deftly weaves centuries of human exploration — from the doubt of St Thomas to Galileo's scientific certainties. Journeying through epochs, blending faith with skepticism, Scully makes the arcane comes alive, offering readers a profound immersion into the expanse of human introspection.
I sense them in the air when it’s said there’s little or no chance of a storm — they are apostrophes to themselves, shaped like diacriticals. This is a mundane observation to offer up when the flash closes the light out —that loss of speech to pyrography.
Perhaps we were too directive / as we tried to guide while staying connected / with one so young, distracted. Yet there was response. Rules relaxed to laughter / as through best and worst we mucked / together; skills and knowledge grew / living side by side.
Amid shifting perceptions and the fluidity of names, our understanding of self dances on the edge of subjectivity. Traversing the landscape of literature, we're invited to confront our own reflections, to ask what truly defines us in a world that is ever-evolving, and to look beyond the obvious and into the heart of our shared human experience.
I have played Gandhi, King Tut, gangster, giant, elf, / but a lifetime of lifetimes destroyed my mental health: if you’re all things to all men, you’re no one to yourself.
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