1 month ago - 
1
1How little we make of what we know of anyone, how little we employ it.
-Edna O’Brien, Night
1 week ago - 1
1
So Corde slept a great deal, but not well. The restless ecstasy was what he had.
-Saul Bellow, The Dean’s December
2 weeks ago - 2
2
…she had not the faintest notion of the mysteries of harmony…
-Vladimir Nabokov, Despair
3 weeks ago - 2
2
There is no reentry from the orbit of transcendence.
-Walker Percy, The Last Gentleman
1 month ago - 2
2
That ‘writers write’ is meant to be self-evident. People like to say it. I find it is hardly ever true. Writers drink. Writers rant. Writers phone. Writers sleep. I have met very few writers who write at all.
-Renata Adler, Speedboat
(Source: slaughterhouse90210, via nyrbclassics)
Forbidden are words about flowers. Forbidden is spring. In general, all the good words are faint with exhaustion.
-Viktor Shklovsky, ZOO, or Letters Not About Love
1 month ago - 1
1
In these prayers the child Charlotte routinely asked that “it” turn out all right, “it” being unspecified and all-inclusive, and she had been an adult for some years before the possibility occurred to her that “it” might not.
-Joan Didion, A Book of Common Prayer
I drank soda water and smoked and fretted, until light began to break and the rustle of a rising breeze turned me back to my bed.
-Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
