I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.
Lies 1: There is only the present and nothing to remember.
Lies 2: Time is a straight line.
Lies 3: The difference between the past and the future is that one has happened while the other has not.
Lies 4: We can only be in one place at a time.
Lies 5: Any proposition that contains the word “finite” (the world, the universe, experience, ourselves…)
Lies 6: Reality as something which can be agreed upon.
Lies 7: Reality as truth.
“Writing makes no noise, except groans, and it can be done everywhere, and it is done alone.” —Ursula K. LeGuin
“An entry from the diary of a young Charlotte Brontë recalls a stormy night and is ‘crazily compressed into nearly microscopic print.’”
Short Story Number One Thousand Three Hundred and Seventy Nine
She didn’t know what to do so she stayed in bed for a little while longer and read some of her books. And I know it might sound strange, but she really does think that the only things that keep her alive are her books. That she’d fall apart without them. That she’d fade all together.
"When I discover who I am, I’ll be free."
—Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.
Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity. We cherish books even if unread, there mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access reassurance.