Abigail George Quotes
“Yes, I know that now that there is truth in beauty and beauty in truth. My nature is to be depressive and come out of it and write, and enjoy writing and feeling as if I have a passion and excitement and love and euphoria for it and then I go 'back to sleep again' where I can eat and watch television and not work, not be productive and then just as if a magic switch is turned on I can do it all over again. I don't mind the being depressed part. Sometimes it seems to fuel me. The anger though is gone now that was there in my twenties and even earlier in my youth. Your voice is Tolstoy’s, Hemingway’s, Updike’s, Styron’s, Mcewan’s, Greene’s, Fugard’s, Kundera’s, Rilke’s while I am the incarnate of Radcliffe Hall crossing both genders effortlessly. You betray nothing. There is son in the picture. A small boy but you don’t introduce him to me. Obsessions are unhealthy creatures. They make you mentally ill, emotionally unstable; leave you with a chemistry of deep sadness in your life. I have my writing. It keeps me from disintegrating into fractions. I should stop now before I begin to make myself cry.”
“Woman lost (skin deep) like a damn fine thread in the fire
Woman of the world caught up in your black machinations
I was a woman who cried alone at night, who gave it all
away when she saw the good heart of the man inside
Woman caught standing up; her open parts are broken -
Someone's armour broke right through, it was you, you
For some reason I've been thinking about you, your light
Today, you poured out all the tension, the ego underground
Hibernating inside my heart. I was so close to it, to the flicker
Of love in a lonely street and I turned my head and walked
Away from the flame in your arms. As I put away the fun in
A house of fight I came across you and a mechanism in
My brain shifted chemically, walls caved in like the cadence
In your words and I was lost in the darkness. Even now in
Middle age I remember when desire was a popular drug
And everyone was selling it but I don't live to explore to be
Able to illuminate the proof of my existence, live to burn
Vicariously though the diamond mouth of sleeping stars.
From so much love, pictures of death arrived in black and
White photographs and you're perfect, you always were -
Illusions have no flaws; they're dangerous beings, smoke.
Could I take the moon back and still live with my great
Expectations of nostalgia, laughter, tears and suffering -
But they are all a part of me not the people of the stars,
Long dead videotape, the past has stained the symphony
Of my soul (like the wind through the trees) throughout
Me finding myself, my two left feet as a female poet
The warning was there of the noise of eternity, signs
That said, don't anger the sea, you have an ally in her.
When men grow cold listen to their stories and bask in
The glory of their genuine deaths, their winters, put
Them away so you can read them like the newspaper.
Once in a while you can go back to where you stood
In youth with your afternoon tea, the sun of God in our
Eyes - I am that kind of woman who lives in the past”
“Only later I felt that poetry is like feeling another person lying next to you in the dark. Do you believe in poetry, in the spirit of poetry? I could see poetry in ballads, in the picture of the cathedral on the back of the postcard that my father sent my mother from London, in glaciers, peaks of mountains, river dust, Ian McEwan's covers of his books, cheap thrillers. Running gave me a gravitational pull. Running was my mother love. I was barefoot. There I was dressed in white. Matchstick legs. Hair standing up. I did not feel like a zero. I did not feel like a lost oar, unloved and unwanted, like a plant that needed water. A fleet of paper ships that needed to be mourned. I often felt homesick for the country of my mother.”
“You're beautiful but you don't know it. You're my sister and I love you but I sometimes think to myself that you don't love me, consider what is important to my soul to be significant to yours. You can't see me. I am invisible to you. We don't share anything anymore like we used to do in childhood. The only things we have in common are our parents, a brother. We're not children anymore. It hurts (the pain). It hurts (this long distance relationship but most of all the separation). For me it hurts. For you, it is only your life that matters. Well, for me, it is going to take a miracle for this to go away. The ingredient required for this miracle is only one thing and it's love. The compulsion of love. The idea of love. The journey towards love. I've realized this. If you live in poverty, that is, if your soul lives in poverty you're forever walking away from it with a hunger (in your soul) but when you have love there is no more Hiroshimas, Nagasakis, Sarajevos, and loneliness. There is only light and with light comes acceptance. There is only breath,.”
“Writing will never be perfect in a poet's eye that is why we need people's criticism good or bad, whether or not it gives a positive or negative frame to our work. We are first at hand to fight against the real and the normal in our writing as our outspoken, brimming voice bring truths to light so vividly and intensely for mass consumption that we so long for in our hearts. When the poet, not jubilant, neither spirited, allows his mind to quiet, allows the survival of and realises that all figures of speech matters; when God has witnessed the culmination of his progress; when the writer is almost in a hypnotic stance. Then the poet cannot stop himself when he is in the right place, then he can guess at the intensity, the prowess of his pen, his prolific writing and the intelligence behind his words becomes a self portrait kind of like what Vincent van Gogh used to do when he was depressed and lonely, fighting against the feelings of isolation and rejection by the establishment.”
“It is easy to lose hope when all is lost. We do not realise that is just the beginning. That is just the catalyst. That is when we have to spread our wings like a butterfly. The rainy days will come but so will 'the botanical drawings' of life. Of kitchen tables, our mother's apron strings, cabbage roses and toys if we want to become the women our mother's were. There are so many careers for women to choose from today. Wherever they find themselves women will always find an abundance.”
“It is easy to lose hope when all is lost. We do not realise that is just the beginning. That is just the catalyst. That is when we have to spread our wings like a butterfly. The rainy days will come but so will 'the botanical drawings' of life. Of kitchen tables, our mother's apron strings, cabbage roses and toys if we want to become the women our mothers were. There are so many careers for women to choose from today. Wherever they find themselves women will always find an abundance.”
“I love reading. It has taught me many things. I have learned how to bridge the gap between both genders and age. Separation anxiety and psychoanalysing myself. Between youth and adulthood. It takes a lifetime for some people to fully grasp how wonderful it is just to accept the friendship of someone who is older than you or younger than you. You will always learn something new and that is always how the game of life is played. You do not have to be an intellectual to realise that this moment in time for any generation you will always be caught between pitching your tent, finding that perfect picnic spot, realising that you are perpetually caught between being the frosting on top of the cake and the Everest.”
- Born: in Port Elizabeth, South Africa.
- Description: Abigail George studied film and television production for a short while, which was followed by a brief stint as a trainee at a production house. She is a writer and poet. She is not purely devoted to poetry but to pursuing writing fulltime. Storytelling for her has always been a phenomenal way of communicating and making a connection with other people.
Abigail George was born in the Eastern Cape and raised in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. She was schooled there, in Swaziland and Johannesburg. Both her parents were educationalists.
She received writing grants from the National Arts Council in Gauteng for poetry and manuscript development, a grant from the Centre for the book in Cape Town for poetry and a grant from ECPACC in East London for a collection of short stories.
Ovi Finland’s English Online Magazine brought out a collection of her work in an e-book of her work (2012).
She has been published numerously in print and online magazines in South Africa (Writing Works A Portal for South African Writers and Poets, Carapace, New Contrast, Ons Klyntji, Upbeat, Tribute, Echoes Literary Journal, ITCH, and OuLitnet 2006-2011, Litnet’s poetry blog, Sun Belly Press, Kotaz, Botsotso, Timbila as well as online in the United States, Canada, Finland, England, South Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Turkey, and Zimbabwe. After leaving Mr Muirhead will be her fifth book.
Her body of work includes (poetry and short stories) Africa Where Art Thou, Feeding the Beasts, All about My Mother and Winter in Johannesburg. She writes in English.
Her poetry has been described as being ‘a penetrating view of the psyche of the post-apartheid youth. It is not about apartheid: it is about the selfishness and individualism of the rich. It is not about gender issues: it is about the pain, loss and survival of a numbed youth whom suicide personified overwhelms, yet they paradoxically still feel invincible. The seasons speak to the fragile, fleeting nature of relationships of the youth; their rootlessness; authority that they view as unstable and adults as vacant; a seemingly unattainable purity that they seek; while uttering a clarion call to ‘see me, know me’. Penetrating, profound, intense and grave.’
Her father is the bestselling author of South End As We Knew It and the writer of South End The Aftermath (which dealt with the forced removals and the Group Areas Act promulgated during apartheid South Africa), South End The Workbook. Depression A Sufferer's Perspective, and various pamphlets on mental health awareness.
Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.