I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.
--Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
“I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.”
--Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out
There are plenty of good reasons for fighting...but no good reason to ever hate without reservation, to imagine that God Almighty hates with you, too. Where's evil? It's that large part of every man that wants to hate without limit, that wants to hate with God on its side. It's that part of every man that finds all kinds of ugliness so attractive....it's that part of an imbecile that punishes and vilifies and makes war gladly.
--Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night
The immappable world of our journey. A pass in the mountains. A bloodstained stone. The marks of steel upon it. Names carved in the corrosible lime among stone fishes and ancient shells. Things dimmed and dimming. The dry sea floor. The tools of migrant hunters. The dreams encased upon the blades of them. The peregrine bones of a prophet. The silence. The gradual extinction of rain. The coming of night.
--Cormac MCarthy, Cities Of The Plain
Dawn and its excesses always reminded me of heaven, a place where I have always known I would not be comfortable.
--Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping
--Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
“I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.”
--Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out
There are plenty of good reasons for fighting...but no good reason to ever hate without reservation, to imagine that God Almighty hates with you, too. Where's evil? It's that large part of every man that wants to hate without limit, that wants to hate with God on its side. It's that part of every man that finds all kinds of ugliness so attractive....it's that part of an imbecile that punishes and vilifies and makes war gladly.
--Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night
The immappable world of our journey. A pass in the mountains. A bloodstained stone. The marks of steel upon it. Names carved in the corrosible lime among stone fishes and ancient shells. Things dimmed and dimming. The dry sea floor. The tools of migrant hunters. The dreams encased upon the blades of them. The peregrine bones of a prophet. The silence. The gradual extinction of rain. The coming of night.
--Cormac MCarthy, Cities Of The Plain
Dawn and its excesses always reminded me of heaven, a place where I have always known I would not be comfortable.
--Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping
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