The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? — Oscar Wilde, De Profundis. (Fontamara, September 12th 1993) Originally published 1905.
In the right- hand pocket of my former life I’ve left something for you. That is, darling, your turn will come. I’d walk out on myself if I could. I love the distant glow in the nighttime desert sky like a worn yellow spot in the dark everything might still slip through. — Charlie Smith,… Continue reading Charlie Smith
I always imagine them at nightfall, in the dusk of a slum or a vacant lot, in that long, quiet moment when things are gradually left alone, with their backs to the sunset, and when colours are like memories or premonitions of other colours. We must not be too prodigal with our angels; they are… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges