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Henry David Thoreau

The Summer Rain My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,   ‘Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,   And will not mind to hit their proper targe. Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,   Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to… Continue reading Henry David Thoreau

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Egon Schiele

In Vienna there are shadows. The city is black and everything is done by rote. I want to be alone. I want to go to the Bohemian Forest. May, June, July, August, September, October. I must see new things and investigate them. I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds.… Continue reading Egon Schiele

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Robert Penn Warren

But why should I lie here longer? I am not dead yet … And the world’s way is yet long to go, And I love the world even in my anger, And love is a hard thing to outgrow. —Robert Penn Warren, from “American Portrait: Old Style,” Now and Then: Poems, 1976-1978 (Random House, 1978)

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Neil Gaiman

 What’s the name of the word for the precise moment when you realize that you’ve actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago? ― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 7: Brief Lives. (Vertigo; Gph edition March 1, 1999) Originally published 1994.

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Marina Tsvetaeva

A stone thrown into a silent lake is—the sound of your name. The light click of hooves at night —your name.     Your name at my temple —shrill click of a cocked gun. — Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poems for Blok, 1,” The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry. Edited by Ilya Kaminsky and Susan Harris. (Ecco… Continue reading Marina Tsvetaeva

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