John Berger
Poetry can repair no loss but it defies that the space which separates and it does this by continual labor of reassembling what has been scattered. — John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief As Photos (Bloomsbury Paperbacks,2014)
Poetry can repair no loss but it defies that the space which separates and it does this by continual labor of reassembling what has been scattered. — John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief As Photos (Bloomsbury Paperbacks,2014)
I don’t want to be a tree; I want to be its meaning. — Orhan Pamuk, My Name is Red (Everyman’s Library; Reprint edition, November 2, 2010) Originally published January 1, 1998.
And those you never forgive you find impossible to forget. — Jane Urquhart, The Underpainter (McClelland & Stewart, 1997)
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. ― Annie Dillard, The Writing Life (Harper Perennial, November 12, 2013)
It is perhaps when our lives are at their most problematic that we are likely to be most receptive to beautiful things. — Alain de Botton, The Architecture of Happiness (Pantheon; First Edition, October 3, 2006)
I have… a terrible need… shall I say the word?… of religion. Then I go out at night and paint the stars. —Vincent van Gogh
Perhaps there is no past or future, only the perpetual present that contains this trinity of memory. — Patti Smith, M Train (Alfred A. Knopf, 2015)
In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors. ― William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Composed between 1790 and 1793, in the period immediately after the French Revolution.
Every corner in a house, every angle in a room, every inch of secluded space in which we like to hide, or withdraw into ourselves, is a symbol of solitude. […] Also, in many respects, a corner that is “lived in” tends to reject and restrain, even to hide, life. The corner becomes a negation… Continue reading Gaston Bachelard
She can’t really love anyone, you know, and in the end such people are always alone, no matter how much other people once loved them. — Elizabeth Kostova, The Swan Thieves. (Sphere January 28, 2010)