Jeune fille lisant (1857). Charles Chaplin (French, 1825-1891). Oil on canvas.
The figure had an irresistible attraction for Chaplin, and like Kray, who also commenced by painting landscapes, he gradually abandoned his first choice of pursuit for the nobler and more enticing one. His success as a painter of portraits, and especially of portraits of women, continued until his death.
Christopher Isherwood, A Single Man
My emotional life: dialectic between craving for privacy and need to submerge myself in a passionate relationship to another.
Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift (1726)
The Mysterious Mr. Quin by Agatha Christie (1930)
Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie (1934)
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (1953)
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that, and I intend to end up there.
What better occupation, really, than to spend the evening at the fireside with a book, with the wind beating on the windows and the lamp burning bright. Haven’t you ever happened to come across in a book some vague notion that you’ve had, some obscure idea that returns from afar and that seems to express completely your most subtle feelings?
Stephen J. Darbishire
“I get out of bed, go over to the window, and look at the night sky. And think about time that can never be regained. I think of rivers, of tides. Forests and water gushing out. Rain and lightning. Rocks and shadows. All of these are in me.”
— Haruki Murakami (via violet-woods: “All the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.”)
It is an interesting sidelight that our language - created and codified by men - does not have one unflattering term to describe men who vent their anger at women. even such epithets as ‘bastard’ and ‘son of a bitch’ do not condemn the man but place the blame on a woman - his Mother!
All literature, highbrow or low, from the Aeneid onward, is fan fiction. […] Through parody and pastiche, allusion and homage, retelling and reimagining the stories that were told before us and that we have come of age loving—amateurs—we proceed, seeking out the blank places in the map that our favorite writers, in their greatness and negligence, have left for us, hoping to pass on to our own readers—should we be lucky enough to find any—some of the pleasure that we ourselves have taken in the stuff that we love: to get in on the game. All novels are sequels; influence is bliss.