The nightfall of mid-December

 

"The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. " ~ Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows.

Artwork: Walking Through The Village, by Chris Dunn for Wind in the Willows.

https://www.instagram.com/p/C09jr4orRLo/

via The Besotted Bookworm

Bom dia

 

Recognising oneself

 

“You can tell yourself that you would be willing to lose everything you have in order to get something you want. But it’s a catch-22: all of those things you’re willing to lose are what make you recognizable. Lose them, and you’ve lost yourself.” – Jodi Picoult, Handle With Care

It’s us. Only us

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It’s us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world.

― Alan Moore, Watchmen

What will you leave behind?

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.

It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”

― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

Reading is sexy

 

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Life

 

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byron, 'cain' 1821.pdf

A slice of a good prose

"It is a wonderful feeling knowing a real man cares for you. And remember I have known and liked him for a long while now. I know all Mr. Wilcox’s faults. He’s afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn’t sympathy really. I’d even say”—she looked at the shining lagoons—“that, spiritually, he’s not as honest as I am. Doesn’t that satisfy you?”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Helen. “It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad.”

Margaret made a movement of irritation.

“I don’t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life—good heavens, no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn’t, and shall never, understand.” “So with him,” she continued. “There are heaps of things in him—more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. I don't intend to correct him or to reform him. Only connect. That is the whole of my sermon. I have not undertaken to fashion a husband to suit myself using Henry's soul as raw materials. It would be contemptible und unfair."

There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. “One would lose something,” murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world’s fleet accompanying her towards eternity?

Howards End by E. M. Forster

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