Having been blown away by a book, I am in the gutter at the end of the street in little pieces like the alphabet.
—Mary Ruefle (via fleurishes)
Clothe me for I am naked, says Yeats in most of his poems; Strip me for I am clothed, says Stevens in most of his.
—Mary Ruefle, “Poetry and the Moon” (from Madness, Rack, and Honey: Collected Lectures)
There is a world that 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, Madness, Rack, and Honey (via mythologyofblue)
I now wander the earth, a ghost, with no intent to write, but carrying a spark in my fingertips, which keeps me in a state of constant fibrillation, neither dead nor alive, a will-o’-the-wisp of stress, art, and the hours.
—Mary Ruefle, “A Minor Personal Matter” (via invisiblestories)