words are all we have

[te5seract]

Grande Sunset, Heating Tops & Chroma Glow by Greg Boratyn

[sphereofwords-blog]

to learn who rules over you, simply find out who you are not allowed to criticize.

Voltaire

[sphereofwords-blog]

genius necessarily is intolerant of fetters.

George Eliot, Middlemach

[kafkas-diaries]

27 April. Incapable of living with people, of speaking. Complete immersion in myself, thinking of myself. Apathetic, witless, fearful. I have nothing to say to anyone—never.

Franz Kafka, Diaries (via kafkas-diaries)

[sphereofwords-blog]

a writer begins a book. a reader finishes it

Samuel Jhonson

[sphereofwords-blog]

emily brontë

“I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.” ----Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

[sphereofwords-blog]

herta muller

do you have a handkerchief was the question my mother asked me every morning, standing by the gate to our house, before I went out onto the street. I didn’t have a handkerchief. And because I didn’t, I would go back inside and get one. I never had a handkerchief because I would always wait for her question. The handkerchief was proof that my mother was looking after me in the morning. For the rest of the day I was on my own. 

The question do you have a handkerchief was an indirect display of affection. Anything more direct would have been embarrassing and not something the farmers practiced. Love disguised itself as a question. That was the only way it could be spoken: matter-of-factly, in the tone of a command, or the deft maneuvers used for work. The brusqueness of the voice even emphasized the tenderness. Every morning I went to the gate once without a handkerchief and a second time with a handkerchief. Only then would I go out onto the street, as if having the handkerchief meant having my mother there, too.

[sphereofwords-blog]

love loves to love love

James Joyce

[sphereofwords-blog]

but if you had a lady as your companion, I could put you both under the care of a ciceron, and we could thus achieve two purposes in the same space of time

George Eliot, Middlemarch