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Truman Capote

The wind is us – it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields. — Truman Capote, Truman Capote and the Legacy of “In Cold Blood,”  by Ralph F. Voss. (University Alabama Press; 3rd ed. edition March 15, 2015) Originally published January 1st 2011. Advertisements

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Autobiographical · Biographical · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Diary · Excerpt · French Culture · Memoir · Non-fiction · Passage · Quote

Anaïs Nin

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers,… Continue reading Anaïs Nin

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American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry

Gregory Orr

All night I dreamed of heaven: a blue space I drifted through, huge enough to store everything. Far below I saw this world—pearl of great price; ‘Body,’ Love said, ‘is the only boat from which you can dive to find it.’ — Gregory Orr, from “Nantucket Morning/This World,” The Caged Owl: New & Selected Poems.… Continue reading Gregory Orr

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Adventure · Autobiographical · Classic · Excerpt · French Culture · French Literature · Memoir · Non-fiction · Passage · Quote · Travel

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

How shallow is the stage on which this vast drama of human hates and joys and friendships is played! Whence do men draw this passion for eternity, flung by chance as they are upon a scarcely cooled bed of lava, threatened by the beginning by the deserts that are to be, under the constant menace… Continue reading Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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Jewish Russian-American Culture · Jewish Russian-American Literature · Poetry · Yiddish Language Poet

Anna Margolin

My days take root in stones. Growing causes so much pain. But the blueness above them is altogether more ethereal, purer. As with slender, gnarled branches which tarries a while and is gone they would weave a heaven over me, and over my silence. — Anna Margolin, “My days Take Root in Stones,” Drunk from… Continue reading Anna Margolin

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