C.S. Lewis
We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be. ― C.S. Lewis
Month: May 2017
Jack Kerouac
My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them. — Jack Kerouac
Derek Walcot
Love After Love The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other’s welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to… Continue reading Derek Walcot
John Lubbock
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time. ― John Lubbock, The Use Of Life. (Ayer Co Pub, October 1979)
Dave Smith
I throw out love like an anchor and wait where the long house lights of strangers tickle the river’s back … Isn’t it right to drag the rivers for the bodies not even the nets could catch? I won’t lie, I want you to lie with me on the tumbling surface of love. — Dave… Continue reading Dave Smith
Ernest Hemingway
My father was a deeply sentimental man. And like all sentimental men, he was also very cruel. — Ernest Hemingway
Stéphane Mallarmé
A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night. — Stéphane Mallarmé, from “Sonnet: Pour votre chère morte, son ami…” (For your dear departed wife, his friend) 2 November 1877. Selected Poems. Translated by… Continue reading Stéphane Mallarmé
Aldous Huxley
The more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude. — Aldous Huxley, Proper Studies. (Chatto & Windus; Collected ed edition, December 1949) Originally published 1927.
Rachel McKibbens
A child came up to me in the park and asked for a cigarette. Her eyes were startled cats, her voice, a chandelier. I don’t smoke, I said. She took a seat beside me on the bench, resting her head against my shoulder. Her hair smelled like an old dictionary cracked open after rain. I… Continue reading Rachel McKibbens
Virginia Woolf
This is our world, lit with crescents and stars of light; and great petals half transparent block the openings like purple windows. Everything is strange. Things are huge and very small. The stalks of flowers are thick as oak trees. Leaves are high as the domes of vast cathedrals. We are giants, lying here, who… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
The Vale of Soul-Making 