Scattered through the ordinary world there are books and artifacts and perhaps people who are like doorways into impossible realms, of impossible and contradictory truth.
The daily routine of most adults is so heavy and artificial that we are closed off to much of the world. We have to do this in order to get our work done. I think one purpose of art is to get us out of those routines. When we hear music or poetry or stories, the world opens up again.
"Years ago, before the trains stopped running on so many of the branch lines, a woman with a high, freckled forehead and a frizz of reddish hair came into the railway station and inquired about shipping furniture. The station agent often tried a little teasing with women, especially the plain ones who seemed to appreciate it."
—from “Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage”
In the planning stage of a book, don’t plan the ending. It has to be earned by all that will go before it.
The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew,
the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet.
And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we
who never let each other sleep above it.
—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “I know the truth” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)
The forests are very old. The forests are older than man. They have seen the gods die. And man is naked in a forest of dust, dry leaves and roads covered with leaves and dust.
I know exactly what I would do with immortality: I would read every book in the library.