Siegfried Sassoon
I did not dread the dark winter as people do when they have lost their youth and live alone in some great city. ― Siegfried Sassoon, Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man (Andesite Press, August 8, 2015)
Category: Historical Fiction
Victor Hugo
You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it. — Victor Hugo, Les Misérables. (A. Lacroix, Verboeckhoven & Cie. 1862)
Markus Zusak
If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter. ― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief (Knopf Books for Young Readers; First edition March 14, 2006)
Ralph Ellison
What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do? ― Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (Vintage International; 2nd edition March 14, 1995) Originally published 1952.
Orhan Pamuk
I don’t want to be a tree; I want to be its meaning. — Orhan Pamuk, My Name is Red (Everyman’s Library; Reprint edition, November 2, 2010) Originally published January 1, 1998.
Jane Urquhart
And those you never forgive you find impossible to forget. — Jane Urquhart, The Underpainter (McClelland & Stewart, 1997)
Irène Némirovsky
Deep within everyone’s heart there always remains a sense of longing for that hour, that summer, that one brief moment of blossoming. For several weeks or months, rarely longer, a beautiful young woman lives outside ordinary life. She is intoxicated. She feels as if she exists beyond time, beyond its laws; she experiences not the… Continue reading Irène Némirovsky
Jeanette Winterson
Every moment you steal from the present is a moment you have lost forever. There’s only now. — Jeanette Winterson, The Passion (Grove Press, August 7, 1997)
F. Scott Fitzgerald
I was within and without, simultaneausly enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby(Charles Scribner’s Sons April 10, 1925)
Ernest Hemingway
Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with… Continue reading Ernest Hemingway
The Vale of Soul-Making 