My heart is spilled open; words refuse to bounce and settle. No writing. Everything disappears but the feel of utter equilibrium between fractured echoes. I dig for a name under the shadow of this feeling; the intention is sparkling but I am incapable of disturbing the silence. I am at peace and I wonder not… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
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.
No one sings as purely as those who inhabit the deepest hell—what we take to be the song of angels is their song. — Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena. (Schocken; Rev Upd edition April 7, 1990)
Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul? ― John Keats, Letters of John Keats. (Oxford University Press, July 15, 1970) Originally published January 1st 1954.
Too weird to live, too rare to die! ― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Random House November 11, 1971 and November 25, 1971 (magazine), July 1972 (book)
You can be lonely anywhere, but there is a particular flavour to the loneliness that comes from living in a city, surrounded by millions of people. ― Olivia Laing, The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone. (Picador, 2016)
When I am happy it is so rare. I need to dwell on it, to contemplate it. What a hunger, a craving for beautiful things. — Anaïs Nin, Nearer the Moon: The Previously Unpublished Unexpurgated Diary, 1937-1939. (Harcourt; 1st edition, November 1996)