Love is the burning point of life, and since all life is sorrowful, so is love. The stronger the love, the more the pain. Love itself is pain, you might say -the pain of being truly alive. ― Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth. Published by Anchor (June 1, 1991)
When he was alone, he consoled himself with the dream of the infinite rooms. He dreamed that he was getting out of bed, opening the door and going into an identical room with the same bed with a wrought-iron head, the same wicker chair, and the same small picture on the back wall. From that… Continue reading Gabriel García Márquez
Stretched out side by side, we exhanged confidences, whispers, smiles. Curled up, she fell on my chest and unfolded there like a vegetation of murmurs. She sang in my ear, a little sea shell. She became humble and transparent, clutching my feet like a small animal, calm water. She was so clear I could read… Continue reading Octavio Paz
There is a black pit in the bottom of my soul that has no limit to its falling. ― Claire North, The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August. (Redhook April 8, 2014)
No space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused. — Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol. Published 19 December 1843 (Chapman & Hall)
She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself; her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening. She has the mysterious solitude of ambiguous states; she hovers in a no-man’s land between life and death, sleeping and waking. — Angela Carter, “The Lady… Continue reading Angela Carter
You won’t understand anything about the imagination until you realise that it’s not about making things up, it’s about perception. — Philip Pullman, The Book of Dust: Volume Two; The Secret. (RHCP Digital Commonwealth’ October 3rd 2019)
