Time, on its own, heals nothing. ― Mary Rakow, The Memory Room . (Counterpoint, August 31, 2004) Originally published April 1st 2002.
She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxicabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. — Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway. (Harcourt, October 28, 2002) Originally published May 14th 1925.
How I used to love the dark, sad evenings of late autumn and winter, how eagerly I imbibed their moods of loneliness and melancholy when wrapped in my cloak I strode for half the night through rain and storm, through the leafless winter landscape, lonely enough then too, but full of deep joy, and full… Continue reading Hermann Hesse
…nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring. — Vladimir Nabokov, Mary. (Vintage; Reissue edition, November 20, 1989) Originally published 1926.
There are mountainous, arduous days, up which one takes an infinite time to climb, and downward-sloping days which one can descend at full tilt, singing as one goes. ― Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way. (Vintage; Reissue edition, March 13, 1989) Originally published November 14th 1913.
Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words. ― William Faulkner, Mosquitoes. (Liveright; Reprint edition, December 17, 1996) Originally published 1927.
I think she always nursed a small mad hope. — Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire. (Penguin Books, May 1, 2010) Originally published 1962.