This is our world, lit with crescents and stars of light; and great petals half transparent block the openings like purple windows. Everything is strange. Things are huge and very small. The stalks of flowers are thick as oak trees. Leaves are high as the domes of vast cathedrals. We are giants, lying here, who… Continue reading Virginia Woolf
…After all, each story is a Rorschach Test, isn’t it? And if people find beasties and bedbugs in my ink-splotches, I cannot prevent it, can I? They will insist on seeing them, anyway, and that is their privilege. Still, I wish people, quasi-intellectuals, did not try so hard to find the man under the old… Continue reading Ray Bradbury
Summer was here again. Summer, summer, summer. I loved and hated summers. Summers had a logic all their own and they always brought something out in me. Summer was supposed to be about freedom and youth and no school and possibilities and adventure and exploration. Summer was a book of hope. That’s why I loved… Continue reading Benjamin Alire Sáenz
It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights. (Thomas Cautley Newby December 1847)
It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone. — John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent. (Penguin Classics; Reissue edition August 26, 2008) Originally published 1961.
I simply love that tinge of Botticellian pink, that raw rose about the lips, those wet, matted eyelashes… — Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita. (Olympia Press 1955)
Friendship, you know, is as mysterious as love or any other state of this confusion that we call life. In fact, I have sometimes suspected that the only thing that holds no mystery is happiness, because it is its own justification. — Jorge Luis Borges, from “Unworthy,” Brodie’s Report. Translation by Norman Thomas di Giovanni… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges