“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 each believed or what confessed for cordial confinement is God's glory each seed every word” — 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
