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Mary Oliver

Dream Work

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An “astonishing” book of poetry from the Pulitzer Prize–winning author of American Primitive and “one of our very best poets” (Stephen Dobyns, The New York Times Book Review).
Dream Work, a collection of forty-five poems, follows Mary Oliver’s Pulitzer Prize-winning poetry volume American Primitive. The deep perceptual awareness on display in that collection is all the more radiant and steadfast hereWith this new collection, Oliver has turned her attention to the solitary and difficult labors of the spirit–to accepting the truth about one’s personal world, and to valuing the triumphs while transcending the fail­ures of human relationships.
Oliver brings grace and empathy to the painful legacies of history, whether by way of inheritance–as in her poem about the Holocaust–-or through a glimpse into the realities of present–as in her poem about an injured boy begging in the streets of Indonesia. And yet, Oliver’s willingness to find light, humanity, and joy continues, deepened by self-awareness, by experience, and by choice.
Эта книга сейчас недоступна
34 бумажные страницы
Дата публикации оригинала
2014
Год выхода издания
2014
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Впечатления

  • Оксана Гончароваделится впечатлением6 лет назад
    🔮Hidden Depths
    🎯Worthwhile

    Graceful and insightful. Love it❤️

  • Fernanda Monsalvo Basalduaделится впечатлениемв прошлом году
    👍Worth reading

  • Aida Rodriguezделится впечатлениемв прошлом году
    👍Worth reading

Цитаты

  • history_grцитируетв прошлом месяце
    I listened to the earth-talk,
    the root-wrangle,
    the arguments of energy,
    the dreams lying
    just under the surface,
    then rising,
    becoming
    at the last moment
    flaring and luminous —
    the patient parable
    of every spring and hillside
    year after difficult year.
  • history_grцитируетв прошлом месяце
    Fear defeated me. And yet,
    not in faith and not in madness
    but with the courage I thought
    my dream deserved,
    I stepped outside. It was gone.
    Then I whirled at the sound of some
    shambling tonnage.
    Did I see a black haunch slipping
    back through the trees? Did I see
    the moonlight shining on it?
    Did I actually reach out my arms
    toward it, toward paradise falling, like
    the fading of the dearest, wildest hope —
    the dark heart of the story that is all
    the reason for its telling?
  • Daniela Castilloцитируетв прошлом году
    Sometimes,
    when I sit like this, quiet,
    all the dreams of my blood
    and all outrageous divisions of time
    seem ready to leave,
    to slide out of me.

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