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Albert Camus

She was breathing deeply, she forgot the cold, the weight of beings, the insane or static life, the long anguish of living or dying. After so many years running from fear, fleeing crazily, uselessly, she was finally coming to a halt. At the same time she seemed to be recovering her roots, and the sap… Continue reading Albert Camus

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W.B. Yeats

I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams. — W.B. Yeats, from “A Poet to His Beloved,”  The Wind Among the Reeds. (Woodstock Books September 1994) Originally published December 1899.

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