By: Sylvia Plath On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its…
By: Slyvia Plath All right, let’s say you could take a skull and break it The way you’d crack a clock; you’d crush the bone…
By: Franz Kafka Often when I see dresses with many pleats and frills and flounces, draped beautifully over beautiful bodies, then I think to myself…
By: Maya Angelou The free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in…
Edvard Munch was born on December 12th, 1863, in Løten, Norway, the son of Christian Munch, a military doctor. He spent most of his childhood…
By: Adam Zagajewski (translated by Clare Cavanagh) I could never say anything about my mother: how she repeated, you’ll regret it someday, when I’m not around anymore, and…
