sageshort's review
5.0
ok this was so fucking good. first time i ever read louise glück and im obsessed officially
upstatelibrarygal's review
4.0
Poetry Collection - lyrical, captivating. I can't believe I'd never heard of this author before the last year. I look forward to more Louise Glück.
rebekahvldz's review
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
4.0
Stunning imagery and language,
an ideal read for the melancholy and memory of winter.
an ideal read for the melancholy and memory of winter.
somestuff's review
Everything is change, he said, and everything is connected.
Also everything returns, but what returns is not
what went away—
I felt
something true had been spoken
and though I would have preferred to have spoken it myself
I was glad at least to have heard it.
The book contains
only recipes for winter, when life is hard. In spring,
anyone can make a fine meal.
How heavy my mind is,
filled with the past.
Is there enough room
for the world to penetrate?
It must go somewhere,
it cannot simply sit on the surface—
Everything has ended, I said.
What makes you say so, my sister asked.
Because, I said, if it has not ended, it will end soon
which comes to the same thing. And if that is the case,
there is no point in beginning
so much as a sentence.
But it is not the same, my sister said, this ending soon.
There is a question left.
It is a foolish question, I answered.
But eventually I did find some companions
and in that period I would sometimes walk
with one or another by the side of the river,
speaking again with a frankness I had nearly forgotten—
And yet, more often we were silent, preferring
the river over anything we could say—
Also everything returns, but what returns is not
what went away—
I felt
something true had been spoken
and though I would have preferred to have spoken it myself
I was glad at least to have heard it.
The book contains
only recipes for winter, when life is hard. In spring,
anyone can make a fine meal.
How heavy my mind is,
filled with the past.
Is there enough room
for the world to penetrate?
It must go somewhere,
it cannot simply sit on the surface—
Everything has ended, I said.
What makes you say so, my sister asked.
Because, I said, if it has not ended, it will end soon
which comes to the same thing. And if that is the case,
there is no point in beginning
so much as a sentence.
But it is not the same, my sister said, this ending soon.
There is a question left.
It is a foolish question, I answered.
But eventually I did find some companions
and in that period I would sometimes walk
with one or another by the side of the river,
speaking again with a frankness I had nearly forgotten—
And yet, more often we were silent, preferring
the river over anything we could say—