The little raw soul was caught by no one.
She didn’t have friends, children, sex, religion, marriage, success, a salary
Or fear of death.

— Anne Carson, excerpt of Whacher (The Glass Essay)


She lives on a moor in the north.
She lives alone.
Spring opens like a blade there.

— Anne Carson, from The Glass Essay; She

Their faces I thought were knives.
The way they pointed them at me.
And waited.
A hunter is someone who listens.
So hard to his prey it pulls the weapon.
Out of his hand and impales.

— Anne Carson, “Town of the Sound of a Twig Breaking” from The Life of Towns