Crying is for plain women. Pretty women go shopping. ― Oscar Wilde Advertisements
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality. — T. S. Eliot, from “Tradition and Individual Talent,” The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (Routledge, 1989)
What I remember of the day: soft rain; and the touch of our fingertips’ shy coupling… and the sweet intimacy of our pilgrimage over broken ground and the way you listened with your body leaning into my voice and hearing so deeply far deeper than words the tender heart-beat of unspoken things. — Barbara Grenfell… Continue reading Barbara Grenfell Fairhead
The river is within us, the sea is all about us — T. S. Eliot, from “The Dry Salvages,” The Four Quartets. (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971) Originally published 1943.
Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl! And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, And let me call Heaven’s blessing on thine eyes, And let me breathe into the happy air, That doth enfold and touch thee all about, Vows of my slavery, my giving up, My sudden adoration, my great… Continue reading John Keats
Stories you read when you’re the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you’ll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit. — Neil Gaiman,… Continue reading Neil Gaiman
To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. ― Oscar Wilde