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G.K. Chesterton

The winter afternoon was reddening towards evening, and already: ruby light was rolled over the bloomless beds, filling them, as it were, with the ghosts of the dead roses. – G.K. Chesterton, from “The Flying Stars,” The Complete Father Brown (Penguin, 1981)

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Jorge Luis Borges

A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face. —… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges


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Ray Bradbury

I live in a well. I live like smoke in the well. Like vapor in a stone throat. I don’t move. I don’t do anything but wait. Overhead I see the cold stars of night and morning, and I see the sun. And sometimes I sing old songs of this world when it was young.… Continue reading Ray Bradbury

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Fyodor Dostoevsky

Killing myself was a matter of such indifference to me that I felt like waiting for a moment when it would make some difference. ― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, June 17, 2004) Originally published 1877.

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Clarice Lispector

But after much thought, I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing more difficult in this world than to surrender completely. This is one of man’s greatest sorrows. ― Clarice Lispector, Selected Cronicas. (New Directions November 17, 1996)

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Virginia Woolf

The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight. — Virginia Woolf, from “The String Quartet,” Monday… Continue reading Virginia Woolf

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