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)
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)
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)
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)
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.
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.
And those you never forgive you find impossible to forget. — Jane Urquhart, The Underpainter (McClelland & Stewart, 1997)
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
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)
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)
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