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That’s the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they’re suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That’s why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster. So when you realise you’ve gone a few weeks and haven’t felt that awful struggle of your childish self — struggling to lift itself out of its inadequacy and incompetence — you’ll know you’ve gone some weeks without meeting new challenge, and without growing, and that you’ve gone some weeks towards losing touch with yourself. The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.


Ted Hughes


#love #paradox #suffering #love



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Did you know about Ted Hughes?

If I tried too hard to tell them exactly how something happened in the hope of correcting some fantasy I was quite likely to be accused of trying to suppress Free Speech. In 1989 with Hughes under public attack a battle raged in the letters pages of The Guardian and The Independent. During his time in Mexborough he explored Manor Farm at Old Denaby which he said he would come to know "better than any place on earth".

His last poetic work Birthday Letters (1998) explored their complex relationship. His part in the relationship became controversial to some feminists and (particularly) American admirers of Plath. Edward James "Ted" Hughes OM (17 August 1930 – 28 October 1998) was an English poet and children's writer.

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