And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable. — Franz Wright Copy Share Image
“What I would say is this: writing poems doesn't make you a poet. … It is only with poetry, for some reason, that everyone… — Franz Wright Copy Share Image
Beckett's 'Stories and Texts for Nothing' is probably my favorite book. — Franz Wright Copy Share Image
We know there are poets who are chosen: by what or whom, we no more know than what lies beyond our final breath, or… — Franz Wright Copy Share Image
“If only I could tell someone. The humiliation I go through when I think of my past can only be described as grace. We… — Franz Wright Copy Share Image
“Think of it: a writer actually possesses the power to alter his past, to change what was once experienced as defeat into victory and… — Franz Wright Copy Share Image
Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche? — Franz Wright Copy Share Image
Its hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my fathers equal in any way. — Franz Wright Copy Share Image
