I write in praise of the solitary act: of not feeling a trespassing tongue forced into one's mouth, one's breath smothered, nipples crushed against the ribcage, and that metallic tingling in the chin set off by a certain odd nerve:… — Fleur Adcock Copy Share Image
You have to listen to your own voice. Not your heart, not your instincts, not any of that self-permissive psycho-babble stuff. No, none of… — Fleur Adcock Copy Share Image
Somehow we manage it: to like our friends, to tolerate not only their little ways but their huge neuroses, their monumental oddness: "Oh well,"… — Fleur Adcock Copy Share Image
I write in praise of the solitary act: of not feeling a trespassing tongue forced into one's mouth, one's breath smothered, nipples crushed against… — Fleur Adcock Copy Share Image
There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public. There are worse things than these miniature betrayals, committed or endured or suspected; there… — Fleur Adcock Copy Share Image
“It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse. -From… — Fleur Adcock Copy Share Image
Poetry is a search for ways of communication; it must be conducted with openness, flexibility, and a constant readiness to listen. — Fleur Adcock Copy Share Image
