Mary Ruefle

In one sense, reading is a great waste of time. In another sense, it is a great extension of time, a way for one person to live a thousand and one lives in a single lifespan, to watch the great impersonal universe at work again and again,

I have become an orchidwashed in on the salt white beach.Memory,what can I make of it nowthat might please you-this life, already wastedand still strewn with miracles?

It looks like it__ wasting time, but literature is actually the ultimate time-saver _ because it gives us access to a range of emotions and events that it would take you years, decades, millennia to try to experience directly. Literature is the greatest reality simulator _ a machine that puts you through infinitely more situations than you can ever directly witness.

I study nature so as not to do foolish things.

It is not what a poem says with its mouth, it__ what a poem does with its eyes.

Choice, and all its attendant energy, is a characteristic of youth. It is before one chooses that one feels desire and longing without fulfillment, which gives an edge to any artistic endeavor. Galway Kinnell recently said in an interview that a young poet has so many choices but an old poet must simply endure his chosen life.

A boy from Brooklyn used to cruise on summer nights.As soon as he__ hit sixty he__ hold his hand out the window,cupping it around the wind. He__ been assuredthis is exactly how a woman__ breast feels when you putyour hand around it and apply a little pressure. Now he knew,and he loved it. Night after night, again and again, untilthe weather grew cold and he had to roll the window up.For many years afterwards he was perpetually attemptingto soar. One winter__ night, holding his wife__ breastin his hand, he closed his eyes and wanted to weep.He loved her, but it was the wind he imagined now.As he grew older, he loved the word etcetera and refusedto abbreviate it. He loved sweet white butter. He oftenpretended to be playing the organ. On one of his last mornings,he noticed the shape of his face molded in the pillow.He shook it out, but the next morning it reappeared.