We can destroy what we have written, but we cannot unwrite it.
Yo no puedo vivir sino en mi propia tierra; no puedo vivir sin poner los pies, las manos y el oído en ella, sin sentir la circulación de su aguas y de sus sombras, sin sentir cómo mis raíces buscan en su légamo las substancias maternas.
Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything.
I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.
The anxiety of falling in love could not find repose except in bed.
-Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude
T. S. Eliot’s illustrated letters. (via)
“The myth of the frail genius is attractive, even to contemporary readers, because of its quintessential Romanticism. But the truth is that Keats’s writings are grounded in real-world concerns.”
Jeffrey C. Johnson on how Keats coped with fevers.
love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail
it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea
love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive
it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky
-e.e. cummings, “[love is more thicker than forget]” (via wordsnquotes
I think us here to wonder, myself. To wonder. To ask. And that in wondering bout the big things and asking bout the big things, you learn about the little ones, almost by accident. But you never know nothing more about the big things than you start out with. The more I wonder, the more I love.
-Alice Walker, The Color Purple
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.