Alden Nowlan Quotes

The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise.

Growing up is never straight forward. There are moments when everything is fine, and other moments where you realize that there are certain memories that you'll never get back, and certain people that are going to change, and the hardest part is knowing that there's nothing you can do except watch them.

For those who belong nowhere, and for those who belong to one place too much to belong anywhere else.

December is thirteen months long, July's one afternoon.

‎The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect; he becomes an adolescent, the day he forgives them he becomes an adult

As long as you read this poem I will be writing it.

Five years married and he has never once wished he dared kill her.

Nobody believes anything that's put in a poem.

Broadcaster's Poem I used to broadcast at night alone in a radio station but I was never good at it partly because my voice wasn't right but mostly because my peculiar metaphysical stupidity made it impossible for me to keep believing their was somebody listening when it seemed I was talking only to myself in a room no bigger than an ordinary bathroom I could believe it for a while and then I'd get somewhat the same feeling as when you start to suspect you're the victim of a practical joke So one part of me was afraid another part might blurt out something about myself so terrible that even I had never until that moment suspected it This was like the fear of bridges and other high places: Will I take off my glasses and throw them into the water, although I'm half blind without them? Will I sneak up behind myself and push? Another thing: As a reporter I covered an accident in which a train ran into a car, killing three young men, one of whom was beheaded. The bodies looked boneless, as such bodies do More like mounds of rags and inside the wreckage where nobody could get at it the car radio was still playing I thought about places the disc jockey's voice goes and the things that happen there and of how impossible it would be for him to continue if he really knew.

A Poem About Miracles Why don't the records go blank the instant the singer dies? Oh, I know there are explanations, but they don't convince me. I'm still surprised when I hear the dead singing. As for orchestras, I expect the instruments to fall silent one by one as the musicians succumb to cancer and heart disease so that toward the end I turn on a disc labelled Gotterdammerung and all that comes out is the sound of one sick old man scraping a shaky bow across an out-of-tune fiddle.

The Executioner On the night of the execution a man at the door mistook me for the coroner. “Press,” I said. But he didn’t understand. He led me into the wrong room where the sheriff greeted me: “You’re late, Padre.” “You’re wrong,” I told him. “I’m Press.” “Yes, of course, Reverend Press.” We went down a stairway. “Ah, Mr. Ellis,” said the Deputy. “Press!” I shouted. But he shoved me through a black curtain. The lights were so bright I couldn’t see the faces of the men sitting opposite. But, thank God, I thought they can see me! “Look!” I cried. “Look at my face! Doesn’t anybody know me?” Then a hood covered my head. “Don’t make it harder for us,” the hangman whispered.

The Masks Of Love I come in from a walk With you And they ask me If it is raining. I didn’t notice But I’ll have to give them The right answer Or they’ll think I’m crazy.