The sky lay over the city like a map showing the strata of things and the big full moon toppled over in a furrow like the abandoned wheel of a gun carriage on a sunset field of battle and the shadows walked like cats and I looked into the white and ghostly interior of things and thought of you and I looked on their structural outsides and thought of you and was lonesome.” ― Zelda Fitzgerald, Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda
“Can you imagine looking into your glass some morning and seeing a disfigurement – some hideous change that has come to you while you slept? Well, I seem to myself like that – I can’t bear to see myself in my own thoughts – I hate ugliness, you know – I’ve always turned from it – but I can’t explain to you – you wouldn’t understand.” (I. xiv) The House of Mirth, 1905 Edith Wharton The House of Mirth (1905) is a novel by Edith Wharton. First published in 1905,...
Let me sleep Leave me be Let my eyes close Leave my soul to fade away, forever more Let me rest in peace Leave my blood to freeze Let me travel to the unknown Leave the body; it’s just flesh and bone Let my spirit wander in darkness Leave memories of past in fondness Burn this coffin, for I am not there This burden is not for you to bear Do not lament or shed tears When serenity comes, I will be near When you are lonely in silence...
“She felt a stealing sense of fatigue as she walked; the sparkle had died out of her, and the taste of life was stale on her lips. She hardly knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to find it had so blotted the light from her sky: she was only aware of a vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the loneliness about her.” Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth Edith Wharton, 1905
“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive.” ― James Baldwin
And then we added the colors in the rain The hundred pins in the skeletons of dust In the dawn and evening Of the wedding of mourning In the earth of the harsh country But if the sun falls Within you in the years And the heart is not yet sweet Let no one touch it In the how many years of the sun… Akosah Kwadwo 2012 Painting is A Summer Night, 1890 by Winslow Homer
Marc Chagall and Pablo Picasso, St. Paul de Vence, 1955 -by Philippe Halsman ‘When I work from my heart, almost everything comes right, but when from my head, almost nothing.”
“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” ― Maya Angelou
“Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets. It is fretful with memory, faces and places and times gone by. Beloved images rise up in disobedience and make a mirror for emptiness. Then what resentful wonder, and what half-aimless seeking. It is a silly state of affairs. It is a silly creature that tries to get a smile from even the most familiar and loving shadow. Comical and hopeless, the long gaze back is always turned inward.” ― Maeve Brennan, The Visitor
