Fjalëpurpurt

Excerpts from what I am currently reading.

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But how much wiser to take action at once, than to trust to uncertain time.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens

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The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf

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The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf

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Stars are prismatic—palpitating—elusive. It is not often we find one made flesh and blood. 

Emily of New Moon by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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"I've had only books for companions most of my life," he said. "Is it any wonder I talk like them?"'

Emily of New Moon by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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"I feel as if I was made out of star-dust."

Emily of New Moon by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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[...] each anchored in some secret port of dreams...

Emily of New Moon by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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Right there, surrounded by hostility and suspicion, fighting alone for her standing, without backing or advantage, came the wonderful moment when soul seemed to cast aside the bonds of flesh and spring upward to the stars.

Emily of New Moon by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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Whatever part of him was missing it wasn't his heart.

Emily of New Moon by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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She felt as if love was all about her and around her, breathed out from some great, invisible, hovering Tenderness. One couldn't be afraid or bitter where love was–and love was everywhere.

Emily of New Moon by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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"We don't know where we're going, but isn't it fun to go?"

The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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"Isn't it better to have your heart broken than to have it wither up?"

The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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In just that infinitesimal space of time everything was changed. Old things passed away and all things became new.

The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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She brushed the old years and habits and inhibitions away from her like dead leaves. She would not be littered with them.

The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud Montgomery

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[...] but time, like distance, lends to certain scenes an influence so softening; and where all is stone around, blank wall and hot pavement, how precious seems one shrub, how lovely an enclosed and planted spot of ground.

Villette by Charlotte Brontë

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[...] too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man-too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts.

Villette by Charlotte Brontë

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The Years by Virginia Woolf