One day or one night—between my days and nights, what difference can there be?—I dreamed that there was a grain of sand on the floor of my cell. Unconcerned, I went back to sleep; I dreamed that I woke up and there were two grains of sand. Again I slept; I dreamed that now there… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
Stretched out side by side, we exhanged confidences, whispers, smiles. Curled up, she fell on my chest and unfolded there like a vegetation of murmurs. She sang in my ear, a little sea shell. She became humble and transparent, clutching my feet like a small animal, calm water. She was so clear I could read… Continue reading Octavio Paz
It was that impossible thing: happiness that does not wilt to reveal the thin shoots of some new desire rising from within it. ― George Saunders, from “Escape from Spiderhead,” Tenth of December: Stories. (Random House January 8, 2013)
She looked out at the other trees, and she realised that her life was one of thousands, any one of which could have been her, she had grown wherever her life had taken her, she had drifted wherever the wind had blown her. — Dave McKean, Pictures That [Tick]. (Dark Horse Books; First Edition edition… Continue reading Dave McKean
She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself; her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening. She has the mysterious solitude of ambiguous states; she hovers in a no-man’s land between life and death, sleeping and waking. — Angela Carter, “The Lady… Continue reading Angela Carter
wanted to come undone like gold thread, like a tent full of birds. — Sandra Cisneros, from “One Holy Night,” Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories. (Random House April 3, 1991)
In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name? ― James Joyce, Dubliners: The Dead. (Grant Richards Ltd., London June 1914)
