Herman Melville is not comforting. Emily Dickinson isn’t either. Maybe their work is too hungry for comfort, or just too vivid for comfort. But Henry James is – profoundly so. Because he is tender. The tenderness is there in the… — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
Soundwaves. It’s the difference between one stillness and another stillness. — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
There’s a level at which words are spirit and paper is skin. That’s the fascination of archives. There’s still a bodily trace. — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
“We are all clothed with fleece of sheep I keep saying as if I were singing as these words do. Throw a shawl over… — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
A poem is an invocation, rebellious return to the blessedness of beginning again, wandering free in pure process of forgetting and finding. — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
“we that were wood when that wide wood was in a physical Universe playing with words bark be my limbs my hair be leaf… — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
I often think of the space of a page as a stage, with words, letters, syllable characters moving across. — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
“God was true everything was a mother's role in childhood Someone was in that garden each knowing the other to be entirely inasmuch what… — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
Herman Melville is not comforting. Emily Dickinson isn’t either. Maybe their work is too hungry for comfort, or just too vivid for comfort. But… — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
In Maureen Owen's perfectly titled Erosion's Pull, words and lines map, unmap, and revamp our everyday postcontemporary geographies: ironies and ambiguities, surrealistic conundrums, kaleidoscopic… — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
“Now faith is not what we hereafter have we have a world resting on nothing Rest was never more than abstract since it is… — Susan Howe Copy Share Image
