Quoted by Adam Cohen in Leonard Cohen’s son Adam jokes about father while accepting Juno on his behalf by David Friend (CTV News: April 1, 2017)
The miracle is the vision from the other side of waiting. There is a miracle that we are all waiting for that somehow goes along with the construction of the human heart, of the human psyche…There’s another position, where you move across the waiting, to the other side of waiting, where you recognize or acknowledge or affirm that you’re waiting for the miracle, but this is a position of freedom rather than a position that is imprisoned or fixed. Waiting is fixed, the other side of waiting is free.
Leonard Cohen, CBC Radio Interview (August 26, 1995). Originally posted December 4, 2014 at DrHGuy.com, a predecessor of Cohencentric
‘Dance Me To The End Of Love’ … it’s curious how songs begin because the origin of the song, every song, has a kind of grain or seed that somebody hands you or the world hands you and that’s why the process is so mysterious about writing a song. But that came from just hearing or reading or knowing that in the death camps, beside the crematoria, in certain of the death camps, a string quartet was pressed into performance while this horror was going on, those were the people whose fate was this horror also. And they would be playing classical music while their fellow prisoners were being killed and burnt. So, that music, ‘Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin,’ meaning the beauty there of being the consummation of life, the end of this existence and of the passionate element in that consummation. But, it is the same language that we use for surrender to the beloved, so that the song — it’s not important that anybody knows the genesis of it, because if the language comes from that passionate resource, it will be able to embrace all passionate activity.
Leonard Cohen, CBC Radio Interview (August 26, 1995). Originally posted May 14, 2011 at DrHGuy.com, a predecessor of Cohencentric
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An Halloween Poem to Delight My Younger Friends
by Leonard Norman Cohen
(Ou sont les jeunes?)2
Impassive frogs, skins stretched taut,
grey with late October,
the houses down my street
crouched, unaware of each other.
Unaware of a significant wind
and mad children igniting heaps of rattling leaves
and the desperate cry of desperate birds.
Dry, stuffed, squatting frogs.
I don’t know where the children got the birds.
Certainly, there are few around my house. Oh,
there is the occasional sparrow or robin or wren,
but these were big birds.
There were several turns of parcel twine about
each bird to secure its wings and feet. It was
that particularly hard variety of twine that can’t
be pulled apart but requires a knife or scissors
to be cut.
I was so lost in the ritual that I’m not sure if
it was seven or eight they burnt.