Nothing kidnaps our capacity for presence more cruelly than longing. And yet longing is also the most powerful creative force we know. Out of our longing for meaning came all of art: out of our longing for truth all science; out of our longing for love the very fact of life. We may give this undertone of being different names--Susan Cain calls it 'the bittersweet' and Portuguese has the lovely word saudade; the vague, constant longing for something or someone beyond the horizon of reality--but we recognize it in our marrow, in the strata of the soul beyond the reach of words.
∆ Maria Popova, from: “The Thing Itself: C.S. Lewis on What We Long for in Our Existential Longing,” The Marginalian (3 September 2022)
Bohemia is a dreadful, wonderful place. It is full of hideous people and beautiful poetry. It is a hell full of windows into heaven. It would be wrong of me to drag a person I love into such a place against his will. Unless you walk into it freely, and with open despairing eyes, you can't even see the windows. And yet I can't leave Bohemia myself to come to you—Bohemia is inside of me, in a sense is me, was the price I paid, the oath I signed to write poetry.
∆ from a letter to Gary Bottone by Jack Spicer (ca. 1951-52)