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Joan Didion

We are not idealized wild things. We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one… Continue reading Joan Didion

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Autobiographical · Biographical · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Correspondence · Epistolary · Excerpt · French Culture · Memoir · Passage · Quote

Anaïs Nin

In you alone I have found the same swelling of enthusiasm, the same quick rising of the blood, the fullness… Before, I almost used to think there was something wrong. Everybody else seemed to have the brakes on… I never feel the brakes. I overflow. And when I feel your excitement about life flaring, next… Continue reading Anaïs Nin

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American Literature · Autobiographical · Biographical · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Correspondence · Epistolary · Excerpt · Memoir · Non-fiction · Quote

Anne Sexton

One thing I know about death is that it touches my psyche and mumbles in her magnificently unknown words; it floats within me and wanders through my bones every day. —  Anne Sexton, Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters. Edited by Lois Ames. (Mariner Books October 1, 2004) Originally published January 1st 1977.

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Autobiographical · Biographical · British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Confessional · Diary · Excerpt · Journal · Memoir · Non-fiction · Passage · Quote

Katherine Mansfield

The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody’s fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind. ― Katherine Mansfield, from “Cultivated Minds,” Journal Of… Continue reading Katherine Mansfield

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Autobiographical · British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Excerpt · Fiction · Novel · Passage · Quote

W. Somerset Maugham

He knew that all things human are transitory and therefore that it must cease one day or another. He looked forward to that day with eager longing. Love was like a parasite in his heart, nourishing a hateful existence on his life’s blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely that he could take pleasure in… Continue reading W. Somerset Maugham

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