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Everyone has his own reality in which, if one is not too cautious, timid or frightened, one swims. This is the only reality there is.
— Henry Miller, “An Open Letter to All and Sundry”
From Stand Still Like the Hummingbird (via liquidnight)
From Stand Still Like the Hummingbird (via liquidnight)
Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.
— Lloyd Alexander
From Tusen år av fantasy – Resan till Mordor by Bo Eriksson (via liquidnight)
From Tusen år av fantasy – Resan till Mordor by Bo Eriksson (via liquidnight)
I’m not absolutely certain of my facts, but I rather fancy it’s Shakespeare - or, if not, it’s some equally brainy bird - who says that it’s always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping. And what I’m driving at is that the man is perfectly right.
— P.G. Wodehouse, “Jeeves and the Unbidden Guest”
From Carry On, Jeeves (via liquidnight)
From Carry On, Jeeves (via liquidnight)
In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
— Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions
(Translated by William O’Daly)
(Translated by William O’Daly)
Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.
— Edna St. Vincent Millay (via liquidnight)
I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.
— W. Somerset Maugham, The Moon and Sixpence (via liquidnight)
It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.
— J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (via liquidnight)
I don’t know any more. I used to know, but I lost the knowledge a long time ago. A man can’t go along indefinitely carrying around in his pocket a key that doesn’t fit anything.
— J.D. Salinger, “A Girl I Knew” (via liquidnight)
It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful country-side.
— Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches” (via liquidnight)
I was born lost and take no pleasure in being found…
— John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America (via liquidnight)
