auguris: (waking up is such a pain)
[personal profile] auguris
"Honey child. Now you listen to me. The whole thing is a miracle, Alice. The whole shebang! The strange twists of fate, the heartache, the snap crackle pop of everyday life. Come on! The sun out there on the metal trash cans! The yeasty behavior of that Nazi nurse. You have to appreciate it, though, Alice. Don’t go pushing it off because you have some picture of somebody else’s life in your mind. You’ve got to grab it, whatever it is comes down the pike, you grab it. With both hands."
auguris: (Nothing to be done.)
[personal profile] auguris
He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts.
azuire: (Default)
[personal profile] azuire
After being conditioned as a child to the lovely never-never land of magic, of fairy queens and virginal maidens, of little princes and their rose bushes, of poignant bears and Eyore-ish donkeys, of life personalized, as the pagans loved it, of the magic wand, and the faultless illustrations - the beautiful dark-haired child (who was you) winging through the midnight sky on a star-path in her mothers box of reels, - - of Griselda in her feather-cloak, walking barefoot with the Cuckoo in the lantern-lit world of nodding Mandarins, - - of Delight in her flower garden with the slim-limbed flower sprites, - - - of the Hobbit and the dwarves, gold-belted with blue and purple hoods, drinking ale and singing of dragons in the caverns of the valley - - - - all this I knew, and felt, and believed. All this was my life when I was young. To go from this to the world of "grown-up" reality. To feel the tender skin of sensitive child-fingers thicken; to feel the sex organs develop and call loud to the flesh; to become aware of school, exams (the very words as unlovely as the sound of chalk shrilling on the blackboard,) bread and butter, marriage, sex, compatibility, war, economics, death and self. What a pathetic blighting of the beauty and reality of childhood. Not to be sentimental, as I sound, but why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
ashley: (scenery.)
[personal profile] ashley
"I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones. "

Oscar Wilde
glitterbats: (Godric ♠ neon light that split the night)
[personal profile] glitterbats
       What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open 
              their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- 
       Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob 
              tainable dollars! Children screaming under the 
              stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men 
              weeping in the parks! 
       Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the 
              loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy 
              judger of men! 
       Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the 
              crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of 
              sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! 
              Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- 
              ned governments! 
       Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose 
              blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers 
              are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni- 
              bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking 
azuire: (Default)
[personal profile] azuire

We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves.

I wish for all this to be marked on by body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography - to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.

azuire: (Default)
[personal profile] azuire

‘First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?’
‘To abolish God!’ said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. ‘We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights and we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong.’
‘And Right and Left,’ said Syme with a simple eagerness. ‘I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me.’

azuire: (Default)
[personal profile] azuire

I wish I were able to write the way one speaks. I wish that one day, the barrier of white paper that protects and isolates me might dissolve. What can there be behind this dazzling rectangle, what paradise or hell is hiding behind this opaque window? Yes, how I wish I knew all that. The great hypocrisy of writing, and also this huge joy at the distance established, the gloves I put on in order to reach the world, to reach myself -- resides precisely in this matter which interposes itself between me and myself, this circuitous route by means of which I address myself.


I wish I wrote the way one speaks. I wish I wrote the way one sings, or the way one yells, or simply the way one lights a cigarette with a match and smokes gently, thinking of unimportant things. But that is simply not done. So I write the way one writes, sitting on a straw-bottomed chair, head tilted slightly to the left, right forearm carrying at its end a hand resembling a tarantula in movement.


Perhaps people write novels simply because they do not know how to compose letters, or vice-versa.

wishfulclicking: man in black and white pulling back a curtain to show moving sky (how it ends)
[personal profile] wishfulclicking
It seems impossible that you will never know what happens next, that the thread you've been following your whole life will just...cut off, like a book with the last pages torn out. That doesn't seem fair, she thinks.
lyd: (Default)
[personal profile] lyd
I still think up short stories from time to time, as though there were money in it. The habit dies hard. There used to be fleeting fame in it, too. Highly literate people once talked enthusiastically to one another about a story by Ray Bradbury or J. D. Salinger or John Cheever or John Collier or John O'Hara or Shirley Jackson or Flannery O'Connor or whomever, which had appeared in a magazine in the past few days.
No more.
wishfulclicking: man in black and white pulling back a curtain to show moving sky (colors)
[personal profile] wishfulclicking
How can we be alive and not wonder about the stories we use to knit together this place we call the world?
lyd: (Default)
[personal profile] lyd
That's the kind of world we live in, Mr Nakata. Keep your eyes wide open. Only a coward closes his eyes. Closing your eyes and plugging up your ears won't make time stand still.
weaverbird: (Books)
[personal profile] weaverbird
"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn."
auguris: We are behind a woman who is sitting on the edge of a bed and playing her guitar. (everything was beautiful)
[personal profile] auguris
Seen backwards by Billy, the story went like this:

American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter planes flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.

The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers in the the bellies of the planes. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody good as new.

When the bombers got back to their base the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating day and night, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody again.
katydidmischief: (writing)
[personal profile] katydidmischief
"I like too many things and get all confused and hung up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."
theshake: credit to iroppoii for the original base (holes)
[personal profile] theshake
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
vanbrusage: (Default)
[personal profile] vanbrusage
" don't know what you have got until it's gone. People change. The world changes. And sooner or later you lose people you care about. If you don't mind some advice from someone who doesn't know much about families. I can tell you this: Don't take yours for granted. It might feel like all of them will always be there. But they won't."
--Harry Dresden
Blood Rites
Jim Butcher
shanaqui: My Habitican mod avatar, featuring me and a pile of books bigger than me. ((Delirium) Hi there)
[personal profile] shanaqui
In time, in time they tell me, I'll not feel so bad. I don't want time to heal me. There's a reason I'm like this.
I want time to set me ugly and knotted with loss of you, marking me. I won't smooth you away.
I can't say goodbye.
april_showers: (clarinet)
[personal profile] april_showers

Hope has a way of turning its face to you
just when you least expect it
you walk in a room
you look out a window
and something there leaves you breathless
you say to yourself
it's been a while since I felt this
but it feels like it might be hope

I hope song lyrics count as literature. I see them as poetry, anyway.
patchworks: (Default)
[personal profile] patchworks
Stories are like spiders, with all they long legs, and stories are like spider-webs, which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look so pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew and in the elegant way that they connect to each other, each to each.


literaryquotes: (Default)
Literary Quotes

January 2016

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