Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember. ― Joan Didion, Blue Nights. (Knopf; First Edition edition November 1, 2011)
We are not idealized wild things. We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one… Continue reading Joan Didion
In you alone I have found the same swelling of enthusiasm, the same quick rising of the blood, the fullness… Before, I almost used to think there was something wrong. Everybody else seemed to have the brakes on… I never feel the brakes. I overflow. And when I feel your excitement about life flaring, next… Continue reading Anaïs Nin
One thing I know about death is that it touches my psyche and mumbles in her magnificently unknown words; it floats within me and wanders through my bones every day. — Anne Sexton, Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters. Edited by Lois Ames. (Mariner Books October 1, 2004) Originally published January 1st 1977.
Someday it all comes. — Joan Didion, “On Keeping a Notebook,” Slouching Towards Bethlehem. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux October 1, 1990) Originally published 1968.
The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody’s fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind. ― Katherine Mansfield, from “Cultivated Minds,” Journal Of… Continue reading Katherine Mansfield
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers,… Continue reading Anaïs Nin