This is th’ abyss. Behold wherein I lurk The lazar-house my mind, wherein do work The horrid charnel-priests, whose loathly song Sickens my soul, and quells the spirit strong. ― Aleister Crowley, White Stains & the Nameless Novel: Flowers of Eros and Evil. (Wet Angel Books October 31, 2008) Advertisements
Stories, like people and butterflies and songbirds’ eggs and human hearts and dreams, are also fragile things, made up of nothing stronger or more lasting than twenty-six letters and a handful of punctuation marks. Or they are words on the air, composed of sounds and ideas-abstract, invisible, gone once they’ve been spoken-and what could be… Continue reading Neil Gaiman
Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your… Continue reading C.S. Lewis
I feel insignificant, lost, but exultant. — Virginia Woolf, The Waves. (Harvest Books 1978) Originally published October 8th 1931.
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
Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love. — George Eliot
Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, June 17, 2004) Originally published 1820.
