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Their silence comfortable. something unfolding. but what? not love, which wrenched and wounded. not love, which came only once.
-Annie Proulx
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Their Silence Comfortable. Something Unfolding. But What?

Annie Proulx
Their silence comfortable. something unfolding. but what? not love, which wrenched and wounded. not love, which came only once.
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Silence Unfolding Wounded

More From Annie Proulx

Words stand between silence and silence: between the silence of things and the silence of our own being. between the silence of the world and the silence of god. when we have really met and known the world in silence, words do not separate us from the world nor from other men, nor from god, nor from ourselves because we no longer trust entirely in language to contain reality.
Reality Men Silence
All profound things, and emotions of things are preceded and attended by silence... silence is the general consecration of the universe. silence is the invisible laying on of the divine pontiff's hands upon the world. silence is at once the most harmless and the most awful thing in all nature. it speaks of the reserved forces of fate. silence is the only voice of our god.
Fate Hands Voice
But as for me: i must ask the wounded man where he is hurt, because i cannot become the wounded man. the only wounded man i can be is me.
Hurt Men Wounded
Nobody escapes being wounded. we are all wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. the main question is not, 'how can we hide our wounds?' so we don't have to be embarrassed, but 'how can we put our woundedness in the service of others?' when our wounds cease to be a source of shame, and become a source of healing, we have become wounded healers.
Healing People Shame
When the spirit came to moses, the plagues came upon egypt, and he had power to destroy men's lives; when the spirit came upon elijah, fire came down from heaven; when the spirit came upon gideon, no man could stand before him; and when it came upon joshua, he moved around the city of jericho and the whole city fell into his hands; but when the spirit came upon the son of man, he gave his life; he healed the broken-hearted.
Son Men Fire
The weeping of the guitar begins. the goblets of dawn are smashed. the weeping of the guitar begins. useless to silence it. impossible to silence it. it weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. impossible to silence it. it weeps for distant things. hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. oh, guitar! heart mortally wounded by five swords.
Morning Heart Guitar
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When you look at the new york times and you pick it up in the morning, at the top of the paper there's three stories that are anti-trump. some of them baseless, some of them silly. and at the bottom you get something about wikileaks. same thing with the washington post. way out of control.
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I returned to the courtyard and saw that the sun had grown weaker. beautiful and clear as it had been, the morning (as the day approached the completion of its first half) was becoming damp and misty. heavy clouds moved from the north and were invading the top of the mountain, covering it with a light brume. it seemed to be fog, and perhaps fog was also rising from the ground, but at that altitude it was difficult to distinguish the mists that rose from below and those that come down from above. it was becoming hard to discern the bulk of the more distant buildings.
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