r/Handwriting
r/Handwriting
A place for redditors to improve, share, and discuss their handwriting.
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by [deleted]
There are lots of great writers. Even within the professional community, let alone the general public, you’ll have a hard time getting two people to agree on who was the best ever. Was it Shakespeare? Orwell? Joyce? Sega Zone-era Jonathan Davies? The arguments echo timelessly through the ages.
I’ve got many heroes and inspirations of my own – Steven Wells, Miranda Sawyer, Barbara Ellen, Craig Kubey, Rosie Boycott, Douglas Adams and more. (Including the fictional composite entity Lloyd Mangram.)
But the greatest writer of all time is someone whose name I don’t even know, and who to earn the accolade only had to write a single word.
The person who can simultaneously bring a lump to my throat and provoke love, awe, empirical thought and the closest I ever get to spirituality, all with a single syllable of four letters, is the unknown member of the BBC production team who named the fifth episode of the Corporation’s acclaimed natural-history series The Planets.
Because the fifth episode of The Planets is called “Star”.
At the time the series was running, I remember being in the now sadly-defunct Bath pub Hatchett’s with a couple of former Future Publishing journo colleagues, Zy “SuperPlay” Nicholson and Amstrad Action’s Simon Forrester (better known to readers and friends alike as The Hairy Happening).
We were chatting about the excellence of the show, and I made what I’d imagined to be an embarrassing revelation – that I actually got tears welling in my eyes just thinking about the title of the episode about the Sun. As it happened I was exhibiting a shameful lack of faith in my chums, because both of them instantly and enthusiastically agreed, citing the exact reasons I’d been preparing to try to explain.
The main reason that whoever chose the title of the episode is a true literary genius is how easy it would have been to miss the chance. Episode 4 had been called “Moon”, and simply going with “Sun” for the next one would have been obvious and logical and consistent. Nobody would have been fired for giving Episode 5 that name, and quite reasonably so.
But names are powerful things, and to have done so would have been to damn the episode with a soubriquet that possessed none of the spine-tingling power the real one carried, because the thing that’s so profound and emotional and overwhelming about “Star” is that it says two things so utterly, diametrically contradictory, yet both of them completely true.
To the limits of our current knowledge, our existence in the Universe as sentient beings is unique and miraculous. The mind-boggling vastness of the cosmos is inconceivable to our simple ape brains, the colossal numbers involved in quantifying our place in the infinite void so huge and so irrelevant to our daily lives as to be meaningless.
We accept words like “billions and “trillions” and “light-years” in abstract and relative senses, because we don’t need to have any understanding of them. Indeed, we’ve allowed ourselve to commonly bastardise the meanings of the former two by a factor of a thousand, both mainly out of vanity (led by the Americans, who love to exaggerate) and a realisation that we can’t really get our heads round the vastness of such figures by either definition, so it doesn’t really matter all that much what we call them.
At this point I’d like to share with you the result of my own crude simian attempts to get a handle on the situation. Imagine a cube exactly 1cm along each side, roughly the size of a sugarlump. Now imagine a 1-metre cubic box – that’s about three feet, for our pre-metric viewers – filled with said cubes. There would be a million of them (100 x 100 x 100) inside the box. Pretty manageable, right?
A billion – a true billion, not the stupid, emasculated American version that makes a mockery of the most fundamental concepts of our language – would require a million of the large boxes, ie a stack 100 metres long by 100 metres deep by 100 metres high.
That’s very roughly the size of a football pitch with a 30-storey office block built on it. Picture one of those (still pretty easy), and think about the number of tiny 1cm cubes (1cm is around the length of the nail on your little finger) required to completely fill it. That’s how many a billion is. (Or what Americans call a trillion.)
And for a real trillion, multiply everything by 100 again. Now your cube is a bit over six miles wide, six miles deep, and six miles high. That’s an area of London encompassing the westernmost point of Hyde Park all the way to Stepney in the East End, and from Highbury in the north right down to Clapham Common in the south (or if you prefer, roughly the whole Tube map out to the far edge of Zone 2), all extended upwards until it’s 20% higher than Mount Everest.
Imagine making a journey through or around the edge of that area, imagine it more than an Everest high, and imagine putting individual sugar cubes in it until every last inch of it was full. (If it helps, start by imagining doing it for the room you’re currently in, then work your way out.)
If you could somehow pack a 1-cubic-metre box every second, filling just that chunk of London would take you 31,710 years. To be finished by teatime, you’d have to have started in the Upper Paleolithic era. That’s how many a trillion is.
Okay, you’ve done well. Take a moment to catch your breath.
All you need to do now is multiply that number by a few hundred thousand (in our example, until your cube is roughly 440 miles along each edge, which would cover a ground footprint stretching from London to Brive-la-Gaillarde in Southern France, then across to Trento near the Italian-Swiss border and finally up to Hanover, built up to meet the orbit of NASA’s Aqua satellite).
Nip down to Tesco for enough 1cm sugarcubes to fill THAT space and you’ve got our current best estimate at the number of stars in the universe.
And that, for those of you who glazed over several paragraphs ago, is how absolutely stupefyingly insignificant a star is. Earth’s modest Sun is as important in the cosmos as a single sugarcube in a cafe in Stuttgart or Neuchatel or Ghent is to the functioning of the entire European Union, and the reason it’s so unremarkable is that it’s just a star.
One day it’ll blink out, and the universe will notice as much as you noticed what Hans Grubenschnitzel of Wurzburg put in his skinny vanilla latte 10 seconds ago, and the universe will care even less.
Go outside, stop 100 random people in the street and unless you live in a planetarium I’ll wager a good 90+ of them wouldn’t even be able to tell you the Sun’s proper name. And that’s our own star. That’s how inconsequential it is.
Of course, there’s an alternative view. Every atom of every element inside every one of us was forged in the heart of that same star (or one like it). We are, as romantics are fond of saying, literally made of stars.
The unimaginable furnaces of suns fused hydrogen and helium atoms together to make carbon and iron and calcium and all the rest, spewed them out into space, and somehow they coalesced into rock and water and cells and suddenly there we were, walking around buying box sets of The Wire and inventing music and Fruit Pastilles and sending probes to Titan and wondering how long Katie Price’s latest marriage would last and wishing she would die.
Nobody has a clue how it happened, all we know is that it was made possible by a big ball of fire in the sky that’s been exploding for millions of years, so incredible that it can sustain the inexplicable miracle that is life, so powerful that it can still burn our skin from almost 100 million miles away, and so chaotically random it created not just us but also elephants and bluebirds and pythons and tigers and wasps and hedgehogs and swans and unbelievably weird fluorescent shit at the bottom of the sea.
I’m staggered constantly – and I mean constantly, to the point where it’s a wonder I ever manage to get anything done – by the astonishing things that we take for granted because we see them all the time (or at least when there’s a new David Attenborough series on), which would utterly blow our minds were we to discover them on one of the moons of Jupiter.
Try it yourself – just go for a walk in the park one day, look around at ducks and dogs and squirrels and damselflies and robins and goldfish and allow yourself to notice how incredibly strange they are, and how amazing it is that they and we all evolved from some gas inside a star.
That, chums, is how sense-numbingly amazing a thing a star is.
And there it is. Stars are the most phenomenal things in existence – vast engines of violent atomic destruction, yet also the source and the support of all known life. We would never have lived without the Sun, that life would be instantly extinguished without it, but it’s so terrifying and fierce and bright that we can’t even look directly at it.
(Although a few weeks ago, WoSland took a trip to the recently restored National Trust manor house at Tyntesfield, and happened to luck into a special exhibition being held in the grounds that week, where a few sciencey types had set up special filtering telescopes and other devices which enabled one to do that very thing. Being able to gaze straight at a deep red Sun, and make out sunspots and prominences on its surface in real time with the near-naked eye is one of the most mind-blowing experiences I’ve had in living memory, which at my age goes back to almost the beginning of February.)
A star made everything on our planet. It made mountains and seas and clouds, but also our brains, with which we remember things and build palaces and make iPhones and submarines and bombs and Rice Krispies and jet aeroplanes and rocket ships. We don’t know of anything (seen from life’s perspective, at least) more awesome or miraculous in all of creation. We’ve invented all sorts of fairy stories to explain – or avoid confronting – its stupendous power. Yet at the same time, this miracle is a million times more commonplace in the cosmos than grains of sand on a beach.
(And ours is a tiddler, in star terms.)
Sorry. I’m going on a bit, I know, and I’m stopping more because I’ve exhausted the thesaurus than anything else. But trust me, viewers, all this is only a tiny fragment of what rushes through my brain whenever I think of Episode 5 of The Planets. (Just be grateful I spared you the long tangent on The Vaccines and 3D Deathchase.)
It wouldn’t have happened if they’d called it “Sun”, or “The Sun”, or “Big Yellow Shiny Space God”, or even “Stars”. Only one word, one very precise word, carries all that potency and contradictory meaning.
Shakespeare did some good stuff. I’ve read Orwell’s “1984” a dozen times, and found new insight and foresight in it every time. (It’s basically the Bible to me.) British literary culture as we know it wouldn’t have existed without Douglas Adams, and certainly its videogames magazines would have been very different and much worse. And Dan Brown and JK Rowling have made a lot of money.
But none of them, and no other writer alive, has ever come close to conveying so much – such an infinite encyclopaedia of poetry and knowledge and mystery and beauty and joy and terror – with a single word.
This piece is two thousand times that size, and it’s just some hopeless flailing that still doesn’t do the job remotely as well. That’s partly because I’m an only barely competent writer, but chiefly it’s because with language, less is generally more.
Language is an awkward and artificial construction, useful in lots of practical ways but a bit like programming a computer in BASIC instead of assembly – it’s an unwieldy, time-consuming process of translation, trying to communicate things that we know instinctively in our genes but have difficulty expressing because we’re trying to use the wrong tools for the job.
The naming of “Star” is the greatest literary achievement in the entire history of words, a masterpiece of compression, and whoever chose it as a title should have a statue outside the British Library. If I ever do anything even a tenth as good, you have my permission to shoot me.
Category
awesomeness, things of all time
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Last year, an advertising executive named Ted McCagg embarked on a whimsical endeavor: Using a bracketing schematic like that employed to record the outcome of athletic tournaments — in which, in each iteration, the number of selections displayed is reduced by half according to some criterion, until only one choice remains — McCagg subjectively selected the best word ever.
McCagg’s Final Four?: diphthong (two vowel sounds in one syllable), gherkin (a type of cucumber, or the vine from which it grows) hornswoggle (a hoax, or to hoax), and kerfuffle (a disturbance).
Is there any practical use for this exercise? I see it as an entertaining vocabulary-building activity: Brainstorm any number of interesting words, whether you know their meaning or not. Subject them to match-ups, two words at a time, and select the one you favor on whatever merits — definition, euphony, or some ineffable quality (I like euphony and ineffable). Repeat until you have a winner, then resolve to learn the word’s meaning if you don’t know it already, and use it in your writing.
There are no losers in this game: The runner-up simply takes its place in line, followed by the favored term in the duel between the no. 3 and no. 4 seeds and then by the runner-up in that contest. Try to use each new front-runner as it is identified.
Organize a tournament with a circle of friends (in real life or online), a writing group, or a class. Make submissions anonymous, match them up randomly, and have the participants vote on their favorite word in each pair, which then advances to a run-off with another favored word.
Perhaps this activity seems silly. After all, maybe the writing you’re paid for is about finance or technology, or you produce marketing content. However, I doubt you work in a kerfuffle-free milieu, and hornswoggling may occur betimes (I like milieu and betimes), but you can apply your best-word-ever efforts to specific jargon and vocabulary.
Oh, and McCagg’s best word ever? Diphthong.
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59 quotes have been tagged as parting: Raymond Chandler: ‘To say goodbye is to die a little.’, Kahlil … “Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” … “It is better to lock up your heart with a merciless padlock, than to fall in love with someone who doesn’t know what they mean to you. read more
The Best Parting Words You’ll Ever Hear I tell you the truth, today you will be with Me in paradise” (Lk. 23: 43 NIV). These parting words, spoken by the Savior as He hung on the cross between two criminals, were spoken only to one of them. read more
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We’ve searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Written Word. Here they are! All 200 of them:
“
Tears are words that need to be written.
”
”
Paulo Coelho
“
My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see.
”
”
Joseph Conrad (Lord Jim)
“
This book was written using 100% recycled words.
”
”
Terry Pratchett (Wyrd Sisters (Discworld, #6; Witches, #2))
“
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
”
”
Diane Setterfield (The Thirteenth Tale)
“
I would have written you, myself, if I could put down in words everything I want to say to you. A sea of ink would not be enough.’ ‘But you built me dreams instead.
”
”
Erin Morgenstern (The Night Circus)
“
Writers fish for the right words like fishermen fish for, um, whatever those aquatic creatures with fins and gills are called.
”
”
Jarod Kintz (This is the best book I’ve ever written, and it still sucks (This isn’t really my best book))
“
Written words can also sing.
”
”
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o (Dreams in a Time of War)
“
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible
”
”
Vladimir Nabokov
“
But a lot of times, people die how they live. And so last words tell me a lot about who people were, and why they became the sort of people biographies get written about.
”
”
John Green (Looking for Alaska)
“
Tess, Tess, Tessa.
Was there ever a more beautiful sound than your name? To speak it aloud makes my heart ring like a bell. Strange to imagine that, isn’t it – a heart ringing – but when you touch me that is what it is like: as if my heart is ringing in my chest and the sound shivers down my veins and splinters my bones with joy.
Why have I written these words in this book? Because of you. You taught me to love this book where I had scorned it. When I read it for the second time, with an open mind and heart, I felt the most complete despair and envy of Sydney Carton. Yes, Sydney, for even if he had no hope that the woman he loved would love him, at least he could tell her of his love. At least he could do something to prove his passion, even if that thing was to die.
I would have chosen death for a chance to tell you the truth, Tessa, if I could have been assured that death would be my own. And that is why I envied Sydney, for he was free.
And now at last I am free, and I can finally tell you, without fear of danger to you, all that I feel in my heart.
You are not the last dream of my soul.
You are the first dream, the only dream I ever was unable to stop myself from dreaming. You are the first dream of my soul, and from that dream I hope will come all other dreams, a lifetime’s worth.
With hope at least,
Will Herondale
”
”
Cassandra Clare (Clockwork Prince (The Infernal Devices, #2))
“
She drinks pints of coffee and writes little observations and ideas for stories with her best fountain pen on the linen-white pages of expensive notebooks. Sometimes, when it’s going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery.
”
”
David Nicholls (One Day)
“
If you’re searching for a quote that puts your feelings into words – you won’t find it.
You can learn every language and read every word ever written – but you’ll never find what’s in your heart.
How can you?
He has it.
”
”
Ranata Suzuki
“
If the words ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’ don’t include the right to experiment with your own consciousness, then the Declaration of Independence isn’t worth the hemp it was written on.
”
”
Terence McKenna
“
I don’t write a book so that it will be the final word; I write a book so that other books are possible, not necessarily written by me.
”
”
Michel Foucault
“
I am reminded again that the greatest phrase ever written is words, words, words.
”
”
Wallace Thurman
“
They think written words are even more powerful,’ whispered the toad. ‘They think all writing is magic. Words worry them. See their swords? They glow blue in the presence of lawyers.
”
”
Terry Pratchett (The Wee Free Men (Discworld, #30; Tiffany Aching, #1))
“
Sometimes words need music too. Sometimes the descriptions are not enough. Books should be written with soundtracks, like films.
”
”
Terry Pratchett (The Bromeliad Trilogy (Omnibus: Truckers / Diggers / Wings))
“
Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters.
”
”
Gabriel García Márquez (One Hundred Years of Solitude)
“
Backward we traveled to reclaim the day
Before we fell, like Icarus, undone;
All we find are altars in decay
And profane words scrawled black across the sun.
—From the poem «Doom of the Exiles», written 16 April 1954
”
”
Sylvia Plath (The Collected Poems)
“
You must not pay too much attention to opinions. The written word is unalterable, and opinions are often only an expression of despair.
”
”
Franz Kafka (The Trial)
“
A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips; — not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.
”
”
Henry David Thoreau (Walden)
“
You said, ‘I love you.’ Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? ‘I love you’ is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them.
”
”
Jeanette Winterson (Written on the Body)
“
There are too many of them.» Reyna wondered bitterly how many times she’d said that in her demigod career.
She should have a badge made and wear it around to save time. When she died, the words would probably be written on her tombstone: There were too many of them.
”
”
Rick Riordan (The Blood of Olympus (The Heroes of Olympus, #5))
“
It was the pure Language of the World. It required no explanation, just as the universe needs none as it travels through endless time. What the boy felt at that moment was that he was in the presence of the only woman in his life, and that, with no need for words, she recognized the same thing. He was more certain of it than of anything in the world. He had been told by his parents and grandparents that he must fall in love and really know a person before becoming committed. But maybe people who felt that way had never learned the universal language. Because, when you know that language, it’s easy to understand that someone in the world awaits you, whether it’s in the middle of the desert or in some great city. And when two such people encounter each other, and their eyes meet, the past and the future become unimportant. There is only that moment, and the incredible certainty that everything under the sun has been written by one hand only. It is the hand that evokes love, and creates a twin soul for every person in the world. Without such love, one’s dreams would have no meaning.
”
”
Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist)
“
It is much, much worse to receive bad news through the written word than by somebody simply telling you, and I’m sure you understand why. When somebody simply tells you bad news, you hear it once, and that’s the end of it. But when bad news is written down, whether in a letter or a newspaper or on your arm in felt tip pen, each time you read it, you feel as if you are receiving the bad news again and again.
”
”
Lemony Snicket (Horseradish)
“
I am but paper. Brittle and thin. I am held up to the sun, and it shines right through me. I get written on, and I can never be used again. These scratches are a history. They’re a story. They tell things for others to read, but they only see the words, and not what the words are written upon. I am but paper, and though there are many like me, none are exactly the same. I am parched parchment. I have lines. I have holes. Get me wet, and I melt. Light me on fire, and I burn. Take me in hardened hands, and I crumple. I tear. I am but paper. Brittle and thin.
”
”
T.J. Klune (The House in the Cerulean Sea)
“
I long ago abandoned myself to a blind lust for the written word. Literature is my sandbox. In it I play, build my forts and castles, spend glorious time.
”
”
Rabih Alameddine (An Unnecessary Woman)
“
I’ve developed a great reputation for wisdom by ordering more books than I ever had time to read, and reading more books, by far, than I learned anything useful from, except, of course, that some very tedious gentlemen have written books.
”
”
Marilynne Robinson (Gilead (Gilead, #1))
“
Sometimes, when it is going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationary.
”
”
David Nicholls (One Day)
“
May she wander but always return home, may all her words be written true, may every door lie open before her.
”
”
Alix E. Harrow (The Ten Thousand Doors of January)
“
We are a culture that relies on technology over community, a society in which spoken and written words are cheap, easy to come by, and excessive. Our culture says anything goes; fear of God is almost unheard of. We are slow to listen, quick to speak, and quick to become angry.
”
”
Francis Chan (Crazy Love: Overwhelmed by a Relentless God)
“
The elements of the written word can be purely magical. I read and I write…I inspire and I’m living.
”
”
C. Toni Graham
“
Written on the mirror, revealed by the steam, were the words, I love you, Jane.
”
”
J.R. Ward (Lover Unbound (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #5))
“
Philosophy [nature] is written in that great book which ever is before our eyes — I mean the universe — but we cannot understand it if we do not first learn the language and grasp the symbols in which it is written. The book is written in mathematical language, and the symbols are triangles, circles and other geometrical figures, without whose help it is impossible to comprehend a single word of it; without which one wanders in vain through a dark labyrinth.
”
”
Galileo Galilei
“
What a strange world it is, where prisoners are left their weapons and the written word is a mortal danger.
”
”
Megan Whalen Turner (A Conspiracy of Kings (The Queen’s Thief, #4))
“
Perhaps our deepest love is already inscribed within us, so its object doesn’t create a new word but instead allows us to read the one written.
”
”
Anthony Marra (A Constellation of Vital Phenomena)
“
I’d always loved the chance to become someone else for a few hours. Someone for whom the words had been written, every gesture and emotion plotted, and the ending figured out. Almost like life. Just without the surprises.
”
”
Morgan Matson (Amy & Roger’s Epic Detour)
“
But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long.
”
”
Marilynne Robinson (Housekeeping)
“
The spoken word is nothing. It hardly lives longer than an insect! Only the written word is eternal. — Balbulus
”
”
Cornelia Funke (Inkspell (Inkworld, #2))
“
A word aptly uttered or written cannot be cut away by an axe.
”
”
Nikolai Gogol (Dead Souls)
“
Words are tears that have been written down. Tears are words that need to be shed. Without them, joy loses all its brilliance and sadness has no end.
”
”
Paulo Coelho (Aleph)
“
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart —
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge,
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
—from «Lady Lazarus», written 23-29 October 1962
”
”
Sylvia Plath (Ariel: The Restored Edition)
“
I was once told by someone wise that writing is perilous as you cannot always guarantee your words will be read in the spirit in which they were written.
”
”
Jojo Moyes (The Last Letter from Your Lover)
“
He finished quickly, closed my fingers into my palm and kissed them. I slowly uncurled them to read his message, which was written boldly across the expanse of my palm. One word that screamed a whole lot more.
MINE.
”
”
Kimberly Lauren (Beautiful Broken Rules (Broken, #1))
“
Words are very powerful and they take on more power the more that they’re spoken.… the more that they’re said and read and written, in specific, consistent combinations
”
”
Rainbow Rowell (Fangirl)
“
I know that fewer people are won over by the written word than by the spoken word and that every great movement on this earth owes its growth to great speakers and not to great writers.
”
”
Adolf Hitler (Mein Kampf)
“
We are faced with the fact, my friends, that tomorrow is today. Procrastination is still the thief of time. Over the bleached bones and jumbled residues of numerous civilizations are written the pathetic words ‘Too Late’.
”
”
Martin Luther King Jr.
“
There are metaphors more real than the people who walk in the street. There are images tucked away in books that live more vividly than many men and women. There are phrases from literary works that have a positively human personality. There are passages from my own writing that chill me with fright, so distinctly do I feel them as people, so sharply outlined do they appear against the walls of my room, at night, in shadows… I’ve written sentences whose sound, read out loud or silently (impossible to hide their sound), can only be of something that acquired absolute exteriority and a full-fledged soul.
”
”
Fernando Pessoa (The Book of Disquiet)
“
Eleanor hadn’t written him a letter.
It was a postcard. GREETINGS FROM THE LAND OF 10,000 LAKES it said on the front. Park turned it over and recognized her scratchy handwriting. It filled his head with song lyrics.
He sat up. He smiled. Something heavy and winged took off from his chest.
Eleanor hadn’t written him a letter, it was a postcard.
Just three words long.
”
”
Rainbow Rowell (Eleanor & Park)
“
Still, I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales. We’re in one, of course, but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book with red and black letters, years and years afterwards. And people will say: «Let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring!» And they will say: «Yes, that’s one of my favourite stories. Frodo was very brave, wasn’t he, dad?» «Yes, my boy, the famousest of the hobbits, and that’s saying a lot.»
‘It’s saying a lot too much,’ said Frodo, and he laughed, a long clear laugh from his heart. Such a sound had not been heard in those places since Sauron came to Middle-earth. To Sam suddenly it seemed as if all the stones were listening and the tall rocks leaning over them. But Frodo did not heed them; he laughed again. ‘Why, Sam,’ he said, ‘to hear you somehow makes me as merry as if the story was already written. But you’ve left out one of the chief characters: Samwise the stouthearted. «I want to hear more about Sam, dad. Why didn’t they put in more of his talk, dad? That’s what I like, it makes me laugh. And Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam, would he, dad?»‘
‘Now, Mr. Frodo,’ said Sam, ‘you shouldn’t make fun. I was serious.’
‘So was I,’ said Frodo, ‘and so I am.
”
”
J.R.R. Tolkien (The Two Towers (The Lord of the Rings, #2))
“
What good are laws that cannot be read or understood, or a tongue that spews only hatred or ignorance? What good is the written word to an illiterate man?
”
”
Delores Phillips (The Darkest Child)
“
The written word endures, the spoken word disappears
”
”
Neil Postman (Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business)
“
As a child, I read because books–violent and not, blasphemous and not, terrifying and not–were the most loving and trustworthy things in my life. I read widely, and loved plenty of the classics so, yes, I recognized the domestic terrors faced by Louisa May Alcott’s March sisters. But I became the kid chased by werewolves, vampires, and evil clowns in Stephen King’s books. I read books about monsters and monstrous things, often written with monstrous language, because they taught me how to battle the real monsters in my life.
And now I write books for teenagers because I vividly remember what it felt like to be a teen facing everyday and epic dangers. I don’t write to protect them. It’s far too late for that. I write to give them weapons–in the form of words and ideas-that will help them fight their monsters. I write in blood because I remember what it felt like to bleed.
”
”
Sherman Alexie
“
Is a picture really worth a thousand words? What thousand words? A thousand words from a lunatic, or a thousand words from Nietzsche? Actually, Nietzsche was a lunatic, but you see my point. What about a thousand words from a rambler vs. 500 words from Mark Twain? He could say the same thing quicker and with more force than almost any other writer. One thousand words from Ginsberg are not even worth one from Wilde. It’s wild to declare the equivalency of any picture with any army of 1,000 words. Words from a writer like Wordsworth make you appreciate what words are worth.
”
”
Jarod Kintz (This is the best book I’ve ever written, and it still sucks (This isn’t really my best book))
“
The Word we study has to be the Word we pray. My personal experience of the relentless tenderness of God came not from exegetes, theologians, and spiritual writers, but from sitting still in the presence of the living Word and beseeching Him to help me understand with my head and heart His written Word. Sheer scholarship alone cannot reveal to us the gospel of grace. We must never allow the authority of books, institutions, or leaders to replace the authority of *knowing* Jesus Christ personally and directly. When the religious views of others interpose between us and the primary experience of Jesus as the Christ, we become unconvicted and unpersuasive travel agents handing out brochures to places we have never visited.
”
”
Brennan Manning (The Ragamuffin Gospel: Good News for the Bedraggled, Beat-Up, and Burnt Out)
“
When King Lear dies in act five, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He has written, ‘He dies.’ No more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential piece of dramatic literature is, ‘He dies.’ Now I am not asking you to be happy at my leaving but all I ask you to do is to turn the page and let the next story begin.
— Mr. Magorium
”
”
Suzanne Weyn (Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium (Movie Novelization))
“
Can you cite one speck of hard evidence of the benefits of «diversity» that we have heard gushed about for years? Evidence of its harm can be seen — written in blood — from Iraq to India, from Serbia to Sudan, from Fiji to the Philippines. It is scary how easily so many people can be brainwashed by sheer repetition of a word.
”
”
Thomas Sowell
“
One word I’d use to describe space is lonely. The only way I’ll board a space shuttle is if I had a babysitter with me. You know, to watch the baby I’ll make with her.
”
”
Jarod Kintz (This is the best book I’ve ever written, and it still sucks (This isn’t really my best book))
“
A letter doesn’t communicate by words alone. A letter, just like a book, can be read by smelling it, touching it and fondling it. Thereby, intelligent folk will say, ‘Go on then, read what the letter tells you!’ whereas the dull-witted will say, ‘Go on then, read what he’s written!
”
”
Orhan Pamuk (My Name Is Red)
“
The written word has taught me to listen to the human voice, much as the great unchanging statues have taught me to appreciate bodily motions. On the other hand, but more slowly, life has thrown light for me on the meaning of books.
”
”
Marguerite Yourcenar (Memoirs of Hadrian)
“
Few things are better in the world than a room full of librarians. I consider them literary heroes. The keepers and defenders of the written word.
”
”
Louise Penny
“
Things spoken can be forgotten and forgiven, but the written word has the power to change the course of history, to alter our lives.
”
”
Teresa Mummert (Suicide Note)
“
Every word first looks around in every direction before letting itself be written down by me.
”
”
Franz Kafka
“
She was the book that was not written. The sentence that was not scripted. She was the word you wished you could have said.
”
”
Lang Leav (Memories)
“
And this, even more wonderful and mysterious, is also true: when I read it, when I read what Julie’s written, she is instantly alive again, whole and undamaged. With her words in my mind while I’m reading, she is as real as I am. Gloriously daft, drop-dead charming, full of bookish nonsense and foul language, brave and generous. She’s right here. Afraid and exhausted, alone, but fighting. Flying in silver moonlight in a plane that can’t be landed, stuck in the climb—alive, alive, ALIVE.
”
”
Elizabeth Wein (Code Name Verity (Code Name Verity #1))
“
Strong words outlast the paper they are written upon.
”
”
Joseph Bruchac (Code Talker: A Novel About the Navajo Marines of World War Two)
“
He opened his mouth. The words were there. He was about to say them when a jolt of terror went through him, the terror of someone who, wandering in a mist, pauses only to realise that they have stopped inches from the edge of a gaping abyss. The way she was looking at him — she could read what was in his eyes, he realised. It must have been written plainly there, like words on the page of a book. There had been no time, no chance, to hide it.
“Will,” she whispered. “Say something, Will.”
But there was nothing to say. There was only emptiness, as there had been before her. As there would always be.
‘I have lost everything’, Will thought. ‘Everything.
”
”
Cassandra Clare
“
Nobody these days holds the written word in such high esteem as police states do,’ Arkadian Porpirych says. ‘What statistic allows one to identify the nations where literature enjoys true consideration better than the sums appropriated for controlling it and suppressing it? Where it is the object of such attentions, literature gains an extraordinary authority, inconceivable in countries where it is allowed to vegetate as an innocuous pastime, without risks.
”
”
Italo Calvino (If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler)
“
Sometimes, when it’s going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery. The true writer, the born writer, will scribble words on scraps of litter, the back of a bus tickets, on the wall of a cell .Emma is lost on anything less than 120gsm.
”
”
David Nicholls (One Day)
“
What a wee little part of a person’s life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, not those of other things, are his history. These are his life, and they are not written. Everyday would make a whole book of 80,000 words — 365 books a year. Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man — the biography of the man himself cannot be written.
”
”
Mark Twain
“
The written word, obviously, is very inward, and when we’re reading, we’re thinking. It’s a sort of spiritual, meditative activity. When we’re looking at visual objects, I think our eyes are obviously directed outward, so there’s not as much reflective time. And it’s the reflectiveness and the spiritual inwardness about reading that appeals to me.
”
”
Joyce Carol Oates
“
Ignorance is king. Many would not profit by his abdication. Many enrich themselves by means of his dark monarchy. They are his Court, and in his name they defraud and govern, enrich themselves and perpetuate their power. Even literacy they fear, for the written word is another channel of communication that might cause their enemies to become united. Their weapons are keen-honed, and they use them with skill. They will press the battle upon the world when their interests are threatened, and the violence which follows will last until the structure of society as it now exists is leveled to rubble, and a new society emerges. I am sorry. But that is how I see it.
”
”
Walter M. Miller Jr. (A Canticle for Leibowitz (St. Leibowitz, #1))
“
I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows that he cannot say to her «I love you madly», because he knows that she knows (and that she knows he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still there is a solution. He can say «As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly». At this point, having avoided false innocence, having said clearly it is no longer possible to talk innocently, he will nevertheless say what he wanted to say to the woman: that he loves her in an age of lost innocence.
”
”
Umberto Eco
“
You’re the man who stands on the street corner with a roll of toilet paper, and written on each square are the words, ‘I love you.’ And each passer-by, no matter who, gets a square all his or her own. I don’t want my square of toilet paper.’
I didn’t realize it was toilet paper.
”
”
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater)
“
But it was too early to know: there were always more pages to go, more words to be written, before the story was over.
”
”
Sarah Dessen (This Lullaby)
“
I am no fan of books. And chances are, if you’re reading this, you and I share a healthy skepticism about the printed word. Well, I want you to know that this is the first book I’ve ever written, and I hope it’s the first book you’ve ever read. Don’t make a habit of it.
”
”
Stephen Colbert (I Am America (And So Can You!))
“
Generally, old media don’t die. They just have to grow old gracefully. Guess what, we still have stone masons. They haven’t been the primary purveyors of the written word for a while now of course, but they still have a role because you wouldn’t want a TV screen on your headstone.
”
”
Douglas Adams
“
Now I found it in writing sentences. You can write that sentence in a way that you would have written it last year. Or you can write it in the way of the exquisite nuance that is sriting in your mind now. But that takes a lot of … waiting for the right word to come.
”
”
Joseph Campbell (The Hero’s Journey: Joseph Campbell on His Life & Work (Works))
“
November 20. Andrius’s birthday. I had counted the days carefully. I wished him a happy birthday when I woke and thought about him while hauling logs during the day. At night, I sat by the light of the stove, reading Dombey and Son. Krasivaya. I still hadn’t found the word. Maybe I’d find it if I jumped ahead. I flipped through some of the pages. A marking caught my eye. I leafed backward. Something was written in pencil in the margin of 278.
Hello, Lina. You’ve gotten to page 278. That’s pretty good!
I gasped, then pretened I was engrossed in the book. I looked at Andrius’s handwritting. I ran my finger over this elongated letters in my name. Were there more? I knew I should read onward. I couldn’t wait. I turned though the pages carefully, scanning the margins.
Page 300:
Are you really on page 300 or are you skipping ahead now?
I had to stifle my laughter.
Page 322:
Dombey and Son is boring. Admit it.
Page 364:
I’m thinking of you.
Page 412:
Are you maybe thinking of me?
I closed my eyes.
Yes, I’m thinking of you. Happy birthday, Andrius.
”
”
Ruta Sepetys (Between Shades of Gray)
“
Imagine a poem written with such enormous three-dimensional words that we had to invent a smaller word to reference each of the big ones; that we had to rewrite the whole thing in shorthand, smashing it into two dimensions, just to talk about it. Or don’t imagine it. Look outside. Human language is our attempt at navigating God’s language; it is us running between the lines of His epic, climbing on the vowels and building houses out of the consonants.
”
”
N.D. Wilson (Notes From The Tilt-A-Whirl: Wide-Eyed Wonder in God’s Spoken World)
“
And I knew in my bones that Emily Dickinson wouldn’t have written even one poem if she’d had two howling babies, a husband bent on jamming another one into her, a house to run, a garden to tend, three cows to milk, twenty chickens to feed, and four hired hands to cook for. I knew then why they didn’t marry. Emily and Jane and Louisa. I knew and it scared me. I also knew what being lonely was and I didn’t want to be lonely my whole life. I didn’t want to give up on my words. I didn’t want to choose one over the other. Mark Twain didn’t have to. Charles Dickens didn’t.
”
”
Jennifer Donnelly (A Northern Light)
“
When the clergy addressed General Washington on his departure from the government, it was observed in their consultation that he had never on any occasion said a word to the public which showed a belief in the Christian religion and they thought they should so pen their address as to force him at length to declare publicly whether he was a Christian or not. They did so. However [Dr. Rush] observed the old fox was too cunning for them. He answered every article of their address particularly except that, which he passed over without notice… I know that Gouverneur Morris, who pretended to be in his secrets & believed himself to be so, has often told me that General Washington believed no more of that system than he himself did.
{The Anas, February 1, 1800, written shortly after the death of first US president George Washington}
”
”
Thomas Jefferson (The Complete Anas of Thomas Jefferson)
“
There will be, he promised in the darkness, new words written upon his heart. I will make one.
”
”
Leigh Bardugo (The Demon in the Wood (Grishaverse, #0.1))
“
I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in blurry, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table.
I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M. I will love you as a starfish loves a coral reef and as a kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fettuccini and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza.
I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. i will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping. I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey.
I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and as an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of people who talk too much. I will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl. I will love you as the taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock.
”
”
Lemony Snicket
“
There are words in the soul of a newborn baby, wanting and waiting to be written.
”
”
Toba Beta (Betelgeuse Incident: Insiden Bait Al-Jauza)
“
I’ve written you a hundred messages that I’ll never send
”
”
pleasefindthis (I Wrote This For You: Just the Words (I Wrote This For You #2))
“
At times I feel as if I had lived all this before and that I have already written these very words, but I know it was not I: it was another woman, who kept her notebooks so that one day I could use them. I write, she wrote, that memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously. … That’s why my Grandmother Clara wrote in her notebooks, in order to see things in their true dimension and to defy her own poor memory.
”
”
Isabel Allende (The House of the Spirits)
“
When we read, it is not ours to absorb all that is written. Our thoughts are jealous and they constantly blank out the thoughts of others, for there is not room enough in us for two scents at one time.
”
”
Milorad Pavić (Dictionary of the Khazars: A Lexicon Novel in 100,000 Words)
“
In Pakistan when women say they want independence, people think this means we don’t want to obey our fathers, brothers or husbands. But it does not mean that. It means we want to make decisions for ourselves. We want to be free to go to school or to go to work. Nowhere is it written in the Quran that a woman should be dependent on a man. The word has not come down from the heavens to tell us that every woman should listen to a man.
”
”
Malala Yousafzai (I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban)
“
As for love . . . no, having once written that word I can write nothing more.
”
”
Osamu Dazai (The Setting Sun)
“
Are you using that handbag that has the word fuck written all over it again? I warned you about taking that out in public.
”
”
Darynda Jones (Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (Charley Davidson, #4))
“
The stars are brilliant at this time of night
and I wander these streets like a ritual I don’t dare to break
for darling, the times are quite glorious.
I left him by the water’s edge,
still waving long after the ship was gone
and if someone would have screamed my name I wouldn’t have heard for I’ve said goodbye so many times in my short life that farewells are a muscular task and I’ve taught them well.
There’s a place by the side of the railway near the lake where I grew up and I used to go there to burry things and start anew.
I used to go there to say goodbye.
I was young and did not know many people but I had hidden things inside that I never dared to show and in silence I tried to kill them,
one way or the other,
leaving sin on my body
scrubbing tears off with salt
and I built my rituals in farewells.
Endings I still cling to.
So I go to the ocean to say goodbye.
He left that morning, the last words still echoing in my head
and though he said he’d come back one day I know a broken promise from a right one
for I have used them myself and there is no coming back.
Minds like ours are can’t be tamed and the price for freedom is the price we pay.
I turned away from the ocean
as not to fall for its plea
for it used to seduce and consume me
and there was this one night
a few years back and I was not yet accustomed to farewells
and just like now I stood waving long after the ship was gone.
But I was younger then and easily fooled
and the ocean was deep and dark and blue
and I took my shoes off to let the water freeze my bones.
I waded until I could no longer walk and it was too cold to swim but still I kept on walking at the bottom of the sea for I could not tell the difference between the ocean and the lack of someone I loved and I had not yet learned how the task of moving on is as necessary as survival.
Then days passed by and I spent them with my work
and now I’m writing letters I will never dare to send.
But there is this one day every year or so
when the burden gets too heavy
and I collect my belongings I no longer need
and make my way to the ocean to burn and drown and start anew
and it is quite wonderful, setting fire to my chains and flames on written words
and I stand there, starring deep into the heat until they’re all gone.
Nothing left to hold me back.
You kissed me that morning as if you’d never done it before and never would again and now I write another letter that I will never dare to send, collecting memories of loss
like chains wrapped around my veins,
and if you see a fire from the shore tonight
it’s my chains going up in flames.
The time of moon i quite glorious.
We could have been so glorious.
”
”
Charlotte Eriksson (You’re Doing Just Fine)
“
Written in ink, in German, in a small, hopelessly sincere handwriting, were the words «Dear God, life is hell.» Nothing led up to or away from it. Alone on the page, and in the sickly stillness of the room, the words appeared to have the stature of an uncontestable, even classic indictment. X stared at the page for several minutes, trying, against heavy odds, not to be taken in. Then, with far more zeal than he had done anything in weeks, he picked up a pencil stub and wrote down under the inscription, in English, «Fathers and teachers, I ponder, ‘What is Hell?’ I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.
”
”
J.D. Salinger (Nine Stories)
“
I have the gift of neither the spoken nor the written word, especially if I have to say something about myself or my work. Whoever wants to know something about me -as an artist, the only notable thing- ought to look carefully at my pictures and try and see in them what I am and what I want to do.
”
”
Gustav Klimt
“
Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge.
Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat.
Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.
”
”
Kamand Kojouri
“
Just be yourself,” Connor tells him. “I know you probably fail at written word, but in person, you usually ace being who you are.”
“I’m going to ignore the part where you fucking insulted me.”
Connor grins. “Why? Those are the best parts.”
Ryke flips him off.
”
”
Krista Ritchie (Addicted After All (Addicted #5))
“
Getting over it so soon? But the words are ambiguous. To say the patient is getting over it after an operation for appendicitis is one thing; after he’s had his leg off is quite another. After that operation either the wounded stump heals or the man dies. If it heals, the fierce, continuous pain will stop. Presently he’ll get back his strength and be able to stump about on his wooden leg. He has ‘got over it.’ But he will probably have recurrent pains in the stump all his life, and perhaps pretty bad ones; and he will always be a one-legged man. There will be hardly any moment when he forgets it. Bathing, dressing, sitting down and getting up again, even lying in bed, will all be different. His whole way of life will be changed. All sorts of pleasures and activities that he once took for granted will have to be simply written off. Duties too. At present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again.
”
”
C.S. Lewis (A Grief Observed)
“
Here’s what we’re not taught [about the Declaration and Constitution]: Those words at the time they were written were blazingly, electrifyingly subversive. If you understand them truly now, they still are. You are not taught — and it is a disgrace that you aren’t — that these men and women were radicals for liberty; that they had a vision of equality that was a slap in the face of what the rest of their world understood to be the unchanging, God-given order of nations; and that they were willing to die to make that desperate vision into a reality for people like us, whom they would never live to see.
”
”
Naomi Wolf (The End of America: Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot)
“
I walked over, my eyes scanning Luna Blu, my house, and Dave’s. But it was the building behind them, that empty hotel, that had the tiniest light, provided by one word, written in fluorescent paint. Maybe it wasn’t what was once there, in real life. But in this one, it said it all: STAY.
”
”
Sarah Dessen (What Happened to Goodbye)
“
You said, ‘I’m going to leave him because my love for you makes any other life a lie.’ I’ve hidden those words in the lining of my coat. I take them out like a jewel thief when no-one’s watching. They haven’t faded. Nothing about you has faded. You are still the colour of my blood. You are my blood. When I look in the mirror it’s not my own face I see. Your body is twice. Once you once me. Can I be sure which is which?
”
”
Jeanette Winterson (Written on the Body)
“
I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.
”
”
Virginia Woolf (The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume One: 1915-1919)
“
At last he stopped, and she stared down at the printed column of words, unable to comprehend a single one. His hand, warm and steady, wound its way around hers, wrapping it like a spider would its prey. She surrendered it to him, unable to watch even as his thumb traced the place, just above her knuckles, where he had once written his number in deep violet. Isobel ceased to breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts shattering into senseless fragments. All the while, her eyes remained trained and unblinking on the open page. Lines without meaning stared up at her, little more than black sticks in an otherwise white world.
”
”
Kelly Creagh (Nevermore (Nevermore, #1))
“
My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel — it is, before all, to make you see. That — and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm — all you demand; and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask.
”
”
Joseph Conrad (The Nigger of the Narcissus and the Secret Sharer)
“
229. I am writing all this down in blue ink, so as to remember that all words, not just some, are written in water.
”
”
Maggie Nelson (Bluets)
“
LADY LAZARUS
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it—
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?—
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot—
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart—
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
— written 23-29 October 1962
”
”
Sylvia Plath (Ariel)
“
The only source of my power are the pages you hold and the words written thereon. As you read them, I hope the magic starts to work between my words and your imagination.
”
”
Elizabeth Vaughan (Warprize (Chronicles of the Warlands, #1))
“
But I have long loved the written word, and come to see in it the power of the sleeping lion. This is my name. This is who I am. This is how I got here. In the absence of an audience, I will write down my story so that it waits like a restful beast with lungs breathing and heart beating.
”
”
Lawrence Hill (Someone Knows My Name)
“
Your salary is not love and your word is not love. Your clothes are not love and holding hands is not love. Sex is not love and a kiss is not love. Long letters are not love and a text is not love. Flowers are not love and a box of chocolates is not love. Sunsets are not love and photographs are not love. The stars are not love and a beach under the moonlight is not love. The smell of someone else on your pillow is not love and the feeling of their skin touching your skin is not love. Heart-shaped candy is not love and an overseas holiday is not love. The truth is not love and winning an argument is not love. Warm coffee isn’t love and cheap cards bought from stores are not love. Tears are not love and laughter is not love. A head on a shoulder is not love and messages written at the front of books given as gifts are not love. Apathy is not love and numbness is not love. A pain in your chest is not love and clenching your fist is not love. Rain is not love.
Only you. Only you, are love.
”
”
pleasefindthis (I Wrote This For You (I Wrote This For You #4))
“
And when I see Ky again, which I know will happen, I will whisper the words I have written in his ear, against his lips. And they will change from ash and nothing into flesh and blood.
”
”
Ally Condie (Matched (Matched, #1))
“
Marginalia
Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O’Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.
Other comments are more offhand, dismissive —
Nonsense.» «Please!» «HA!!» —
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
who wrote «Don’t be a ninny»
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.
Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls «Metaphor» next to a stanza of Eliot’s.
Another notes the presence of «Irony»
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.
Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
Absolutely,» they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
Yes.» «Bull’s-eye.» «My man!»
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.
And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written «Man vs. Nature»
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.
We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.
Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird singing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.
And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake’s furious scribbling.
Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents’ living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page
A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.
”
”
Billy Collins (Picnic, Lightning)
“
Back To December is a song that addresses a first for me. In that I’ve never apologized in a song before. Whether it be good or bad or an apology. The person I wrote this song about deserves this. This is about a person who was incredible to me- just perfect in a relationship- and I was very careless with him. So, this is a song full of words that I would say to him that he deserves to hear.
I’ve never felt the need to apologize in a song before, but in the last two years I’ve experienced a lot, a lot of different kinds of learning lessons And sometimes you learn a lesson too late and at that point you need to apologize because you were careless. [‘Back To December’] is about a person who was incredible to me, just perfect to me in a relationship, and I was really careless with him
I’ve written songs about things like burning my ex boyfriends pictures… I’ve written songs about the times that I’ve been hurt by love. But then one day I woke up and realized that I had hurt somebody… And so I wrote this song to tell him I’m sorry
”
”
Taylor Swift (Taylor Swift: Speak Now)
“
I’m putting the word “Don’t” on my To Do list.
”
”
Jarod Kintz (This is the best book I’ve ever written, and it still sucks (This isn’t really my best book))
“
When I began writing The Night Bookmobile, it was a story about a woman’s secret life as a reader. As I worked it also became a story about the claims that books place on their readers, the imbalance between our inner and outer lives, a cautionary tale of the seductions of the written word. It became a vision of the afterlife as a library, of heaven as a funky old camper filled with everything you’ve ever read. What is this heaven? What is it we desire from the hours, weeks, lifetimes we devote to books? What would you sacrifice to sit in that comfy chair with perfect light for an afternoon in eternity, reading the perfect book, forever?
”
”
Audrey Niffenegger (The Night Bookmobile)
“
Every word you’ve ever said, is written somewhere in my mind.
”
”
Crystal Woods (Write like no one is reading 2)
“
I am a dreamer of words, of written words. I think I am reading; a word stops me. I leave the page. The syllables of the word begin to move around. Stressed accents begin to invert. The word abandons its meaning like an overload which is too heavy and prevents dreaming. Then words take on other meanings as if they had the right to be young. And the words wander away, looking in the nooks and crannies of vocabulary for new company, bad company.
”
”
Gaston Bachelard
“
My words never last long. I have to destroy them before anyone sees them. But. I remember them all. For some reason, the act of writing them down makes me remember. Each word I write brings me closer to finding the right ones. And when I see Ky again, which I know will happen, I will whisper the words I have written in his ear, against his lips. and they will change from ash and nothing into flesh and blood.
”
”
Ally Condie (Matched (Matched, #1))
“
Imagine that Jesus is calling you today. He extends a second invitation to accept His Father’s love. And maybe you answer, «Oh, I know that. It’s old hat.»
And God answers, ‘No, that’s what you don’t know. You don’t know how much I love you. The moment you think you understand is the moment you do not understand. I am God, not man. You tell others about Me — your words are glib. My words are written in the blood of My only Son. The next time you preach about My love with such obnoxious familiarity, I may come and blow your whole prayer meeting apart.
Did you know that every time you tell Me you love Me, I say thank you?
”
”
Brennan Manning (The Ragamuffin Gospel: Good News for the Bedraggled, Beat-Up, and Burnt Out)
“
There, written in French, were the words Je t’ai aimée pendant mille et un. –R. I stilled. Read it again. And again. Je t’ai aimée pendant mille et un. –R. I’ve loved you for a thousand and one. –R.
”
”
Darynda Jones (The Dirt on Ninth Grave (Charley Davidson, #9))
“
Terra read the words aloud: “If I’m one day gone, you’ll know it’s here that I go. Into the black darkness that has become my foe. No one will look and no one will ever find. My memory will only exist in the broken mind.” She paused after reading the entry and then traced her fingers along the edges of the page. “There are more words written under the blackness. You can just barely see that they were words but I can’t make them out well enough to read.
”
”
Misty Mount (The Shadow Girl)
“
The word love has always tasted like the scent of fresh ink and soft paper to me. Like a newly written poem.
”
”
Megan Hart (Tear You Apart)
“
We are absurdly accustomed to the miracle of a few written signs being able to contain immortal imagery, involutions of thought, new worlds with live people, speaking, weeping, laughing. We take it for granted so simply that in a sense, by the very act of brutish routine acceptance, we undo the work of the ages, the history of the gradual elaboration of poetical description and construction, from the treeman to Browning, from the caveman to Keats. What if we awake one day, all of us, and find ourselves utterly unable to read? I wish you to gasp not only at what you read but at the miracle of its being readable.
”
”
Vladimir Nabokov (Pale Fire)
“
In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
”
”
James Joyce (The Dead)
“
The love of glory is like the bridge that Satan built across Chaos to pass from Hell to Paradise: glory links the past with the future across a bottomless abyss. Nothing to my son, except my name!
”
”
Napoléon Bonaparte (The Mind of Napoleon: A Selection of His Written and Spoken Words)
“
They say the truth hurts. And these words hurt more than any I have ever written. But they are the truth – The cold, hard, undeniable truth.
Not letting go doesn’t keep him with you.
It’s still over. He’s still gone.
… And nothing will ever change that.
”
”
Ranata Suzuki
“
A Gift for You
I send you…
The gift of a letter from your wise self. This is the part of you that sees you with benevolent, loving eyes. You find this letter in a thick envelope with your name on it, and the word YES written boldly above your name.
My Dear,
I am writing this to remind you of your ‘essence beauty.’ This is the part of you that has nothing to do with age, occupation, weight, history, or pain. This is the soft, untouched, indelible you. You can love yourself in this moment, no matter what you have, or haven’t done or been.
See past any masks, devices, or inventions that obscure your essence.
Remember your true purpose, WHICH is only Love.
If you cannot see or feel love, lie down now and cry; it will cleanse your vision and free your heart.
I love you; I am you.
”
”
S.A.R.K. (Make Your Creative Dreams Real: A Plan for Procrastinators, Perfectionists, Busy People, and People Who Would Really Rather Sleep All Day)
“
Cristina looked after Emma, her hand going to the pendant at her own throat. It was silver, in the shape of a circle with a rose inside it. The rose was wrapped around with thorny briars. Words were written in Latin on the back: she didn’t need to look at them to know them. She’d known them all her life. Blessed be the Angel my strength who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight. The rose for Rosales, the words for Raziel, the Angel who had created the Shadowhunters a thousand years ago. Cristina had always thought Emma fought for her parabatai and for revenge, while she fought for family and faith. But maybe it was all the same thing: maybe it was all love, in the end.
”
”
Cassandra Clare (Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices, #1))
“
If you only write when you’re inspired you may be a fairly decent poet, but you’ll never be a novelist because you’re going to have to make your word count today and those words aren’t going to wait for you whether you’re inspired or not.
You have to write when you’re not inspired. And you have to write the scenes that don’t inspire you. And the weird thing is that six months later, a year later, you’ll look back at them and you can’t remember which scenes you wrote when you were inspired and which scenes you just wrote because they had to be written next.
The process of writing can be magical. …Mostly it’s a process of putting one word after another.
”
”
Neil Gaiman
“
He sang his last song. And the words of that have never been written down. But it was sweet and of great beauty, and those that heard it were changed utterly.
Some say it was the song that moves the stars.
”
”
Catherine Fisher (Sapphique (Incarceron, #2))
“
Damn it,» he mumbled apologetically, «things like this never happened to Vorthalia the Bold.»
She raised a thoughtful eyebrow. «How do you know? The histories of those times were all written by minstrels and poets. You try and think of a word that rhymes with ‘bleeding ulcer
”
”
Lois McMaster Bujold (The Warrior’s Apprentice (Vorkosigan Saga, #2))
“
In astrology the rules happen to be about stars and planets, but they could be about ducks and drakes for all the difference it would make. It’s just a way of thinking about a problem which lets the shape of that problem begin to emerge. The more rules, the tinier the rules, the more arbitrary they are, the better. It’s like throwing a handful of fine graphite dust on a piece of paper to see where the hidden indentations are. It lets you see the words that were written on the piece of paper above it that’s now been taken away and hidden. The graphite’s not important. It’s just the means of revealing the indentations. So you see, astrology’s nothing to do with astronomy. It’s just to do with people thinking about people.
”
”
Douglas Adams (Mostly Harmless (Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, #5))
“
Forget trying to pass for normal. Follow your geekdom. Embrace nerditude. In the immortal words of Lafcadio Hearn, a geek of incredible obscurity whose work is still in print after a hundred years, “Woo the muse of the odd.” You may be a geek. You may have geek written all over you. You should aim to be one geek they’ll never forget. Don’t aim to be civilized. Don’t hope that straight people will keep you on as some sort of pet. To hell with them. You should fully realize what society has made of you and take a terrible revenge. Get weird. Get way weird. Get dangerously weird. Get sophisticatedly, thoroughly weird, and don’t do it halfway. Put every ounce of horsepower you have behind it. Don’t become a well-rounded person. Well-rounded people are smooth and dull. Become a thoroughly spiky person. Grow spikes from every angle. Stick in their throats like a pufferfish.
”
”
Bruce Sterling
“
The written word is weak. Many people prefer life to it. Life gets your blood going, & it smells good. Writing is mere writing, literature is mere. It appeals only to the subtlest senses—the imagination’s vision, & the imagination’s hearing—& the moral sense, & the intellect. This writing that you do, that so thrills you, that so rocks & exhilarates you, as if you were dancing next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else.
”
”
Annie Dillard (The Writing Life)
“
What is seen is not the Truth
What is cannot be said
Trust comes not without seeing
Nor understanding without words
The wise comprehends with knowledge
To the ignorant it is but a wonder
Some worship the formless God
Some worship his various forms
In what way He is beyond these attributes
Only the Knower knows
That music cannot be written
How can then be the notes
Say Kabir, awareness alone will overcome illusion.
”
”
Kabir
“
She read it again. It was fascinating and surreal, like reading a diary that had been hers when she was a teenager, secret and heartfelt words written by a girl she only vaguely remembered. She wished she’d written more. Her words mad her feel sad and proud, powerful and relieved.
”
”
Lisa Genova (Still Alice)
“
Ruby, what does the future look like?” Nico asked. “I can’t picture it. I try all the time, but I can’t imagine it. Jude said it looked like an open road just after a rainstorm.”
I turned back toward the board, eyes tracing those eight letters, trying to take their power away; change them from a place, a name, to just another word. Certain memories trap you; you relive their thousand tiny details. The damp, cool spring air, swinging between snow flurries and light rain. The hum of the electric fence. The way Sam used to let out a small sigh each morning we left the cabin. I remembered the path to the Factory the way you never forgot the story behind a scar. The black mud would splatter over my shoes, momentarily hiding the numbers written there. 3285. Not a name.
You learned to look up, craning your neck back to gaze over the razor wire curled around the top of the fence. Otherwise, it was too easy to forget that there was a world beyond the rusting metal pen they’d thrown all of us animals into.
“I see it in colors,” I said. “A deep blue, fading into golds and reds—like fire on a horizon. Afterlight. It’s a sky that wants you to guess if the sun is about to rise or set.”
Nico shook his head. “I think I like Jude’s better.”
“Me too,” I said softly. “Me too.
”
”
Alexandra Bracken (In the Afterlight (The Darkest Minds, #3))
“
Well, I know,» she said. «You’ll pretend you were men instead of babies, and you’ll be played in the movies by Frank Sinatra and John Wayne or some of those other glamorous, war-loving, dirty old men. And war will look just wonderful, so we’ll have a lot more of them. And they’ll be fought by babies like the babies upstairs.»
So then I understood. It was war that made her so angry. She didn’t want her babies or anybody else’s babies killed in wars. And she thought wars were partly encouraged by books and movies.
So I held up my right hand and I made her a promise: «Mary,» I said, «I don’t think this book of mine will ever be finished. I must have written five thousand pages by now, and thrown them all away. If I ever do finish it, though, I give you my word of honor: there won’t be a part for Frank Sinatra or John Wayne.
«I tell you what,» I said, «I’ll call it ‘The Children’s Crusade.'»
She was my friend after that.
”
”
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Slaughterhouse-Five)
“
Imagine this:
You’re driving.
The sky’s bright. You look great.
In a word, in a phrase, it’s a movie,
you’re the star.
so smile for the camera, it’s your big scene,
you know your lines.
I’m the director. I’m in a helicopter.
I have a megaphone and you play along,
because you want to die for love,
you always have.
Imagine this:
You’re pulling the car over. Somebody’s waiting.
You’re going to die
in your best friend’s arms.
And you play along because it’s funny, because it’s written down,
you’ve memorized it,
it’s all you know.
I say the phrases that keep it all going,
and everybody plays along.
Imagine:
Someone’s pulling a gun, and you’re jumping into the middle of it.
You didn’t think you’d feel this way.
There’s a gun in your hand.
It feels hot. It feels oily.
I’m the director
and i’m screaming at you,
I’m waving my arms in the sky,
and everyone’s watching, everyone’s
curious, everyone’s
holding their breath.
‘Planet of Love
”
”
Richard Siken (Crush)
“
Lila was able to speak through writing; unlike me when I wrote, unlike Sarratore in his articles and poems, unlike even many writers I had read and was reading, she expressed herself in sentences that were well constructed, and without error, even though she had stopped going to school, but–further–she left no trace of effort, you weren’t aware of the artifice of the written word. I read and I saw her, I heard her. The voice set in the writing overwhelmed me, enthralled me even more than when we talked face to face; it was completely cleansed of the dross of speech, of the confusion of the oral; it had the vivid orderliness that I imagined would belong to conversation if one were so fortunate as to be born from the head of Zeus and not from the Grecos, the Cerullos.
”
”
Elena Ferrante (My Brilliant Friend (L’amica geniale #1))
“
I guess you can call me «old fashioned». I prefer the book with the pages that you can actually turn. Sure, I may have to lick the tip of my fingers so that the pages don’t stick together when I’m enraptured in a story that I can’t wait to get to the next page. But nothing beats the sound that an actual, physical book makes when you first crack it open or the smell of new, fresh printed words on the creamy white paper of a page turner.
”
”
Felicia Johnson
“
Scholars discern motions in history & formulate these motions into rules that govern the rises & falls of civilizations. My belief runs contrary, however. To wit: history admits no rules; only outcomes.
What precipitates outcomes? Vicious acts & virtuous acts.
What precipitates acts? Belief.
Belief is both prize & battlefield, within the mind & in the mind’s mirror, the world. If we believe humanity is a ladder of tribes, a colosseum of confrontation, exploitation & bestiality, such a humanity is surely brought into being, & history’s Horroxes, Boerhaaves & Gooses shall prevail. You & I, the moneyed, the privileged, the fortunate, shall not fare so badly in this world, provided our luck holds. What of it if our consciences itch? Why undermine the dominance of our race, our gunships, our heritage & our legacy? Why fight the “natural” (oh, weaselly word!) order of things?
Why? Because of this:—one fine day, a purely predatory world shall consume itself. Yes, the devil shall take the hindmost until the foremost is the hindmost. In an individual, selfishness uglifies the soul. For the human species, selfishness is extinction.
Is this the doom written within our nature?
If we believe that humanity may transcend tooth & claw, if we believe divers races & creeds can share this world as peaceably as the orphans share their candlenut tree, if we believe that leaders must be just, violence muzzled, power accountable & the riches of the Earth & its Oceans shared equitably, such a world will come to pass. I am not deceived. It is the hardest of worlds to make real. Torturous advances won over generations can be lost by a single stroke of a myopic president’s pen or a vainglorious general’s sword.
A life spent shaping a world I want Jackson to inherit, not one I fear Jackson shall inherit, this strikes me as a life worth the living.
”
”
David Mitchell (Cloud Atlas)
“
Nature is a language and every new fact one learns is a new word; but it is not a language taken to pieces and dead in the dictionary, but the language put together into a most significant and universal sense. I wish to learn this language—not that I may know a new grammar, but that I may read the great book which is written in that tongue.
”
”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“
You read a book for the story, for each of its words,» Gordy said, «and you draw your cartoons for the story, for each of the words and images. And, yeah, you need to take that seriously, but you should also read and draw because really good books and cartoons give you a boner.»
I was shocked:
«Did you just say books should give me a boner?»
«Yes, I did.»
«Are you serious?»
«Yeah… don’t you get excited about books?»
«I don’t think that you’re supposed to get THAT excited about books.»
«You should get a boner! You have to get a boner!» Gordy shouted. «Come on!»
We ran into the Reardan High School Library.
«Look at all these books,» he said.
«There aren’t that many,» I said. It was a small library in a small high school in a small town.
«There are three thousand four hundred and twelve books here,» Gordy said. «I know that because I counted them.»
«Okay, now you’re officially a freak,» I said.
«Yes, it’s a small library. It’s a tiny one. But if you read one of these books a day, it would still take you almost ten years to finish.»
«What’s your point?»
«The world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don’t know.»
Wow. That was a huge idea.
Any town, even one as small as Reardan, was a place of mystery. And that meant Wellpinit, the smaller, Indian town, was also a place of mystery.
«Okay, so it’s like each of these books is a mystery. Every book is a mystery. And if you read all of the books ever written, it’s like you’ve read one giant mystery. And no matter how much you learn, you keep on learning so much more you need to learn.»
«Yes, yes, yes, yes,» Gordy said. «Now doesn’t that give you a boner?»
«I am rock hard,» I said.
”
”
Sherman Alexie (The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian)
“
It was a blessing and also a curse of handwritten letters that unlike email you couldn’t obsessively reread what you’d written after you’d sent it. You couldn’t attempt to un-send it. Once you’d sent it it was gone. It was an object that no longer belonged to you but belonged to your recipient to do with what he would. You tended to remember the feeling of what you’d said more than the words. You gave to object away and left yourself with the memory. That was what it was to give.
”
”
Ann Brashares (Sisterhood Everlasting (Sisterhood, #5))
“
But once an original book has been written-and no more than one or two appear in a century-men of letters imitate it, in other words, they copy it so that hundreds of thousands of books are published on exactly the same theme, with slightly different titles and modified phraseology. This should be able to be achieved by apes, who are essentially imitators, provided, of course, that they are able to make use of language.
”
”
Pierre Boulle (Planet of the Apes)
“
Fallon,” he whispers, moving his lips slowly across mine. “Thank you for this beautiful gift.” As soon as his words brush over my mouth, he covers me in a deep kiss. My whole body tenses from the burst of pain that ripples through me as he pushes inside of me, but the perfection of the way we fit together makes the pain a mere inconvenience. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. And somehow, with the way he’s looking down at me, I even believe I’m beautiful. He presses his mouth against my ear and whispers, “No combination of written words could ever do this moment justice.
”
”
Colleen Hoover (November 9)
“
Sidonie, I know you don’t remember it, but you once promised to trust me beyond all reason. And I swear to you that all that I am, all that I possess, including this gem-stone, is yours. I need you. I can’t do this alone. Forget your memories. Look into your heart. And if you can find somewhere there, some lingering spark of trust that owes naught to reason, I beg you to speak the word written here.
”
”
Jacqueline Carey (Kushiel’s Mercy (Imriel’s Trilogy, #3))
“
I’ve been working hard on [Ulysses] all day,» said Joyce.
Does that mean that you have written a great deal?» I said.
Two sentences,» said Joyce.
I looked sideways but Joyce was not smiling. I thought of [French novelist Gustave] Flaubert. «You’ve been seeking the mot juste?» I said.
No,» said Joyce. «I have the words already. What I am seeking is the perfect order of words in the sentence.
”
”
James Joyce
“
He was a finisher who could not finish. He was the heart of a hunter who lacked the heart to kill.
In her journal she had written I am humanity, and something in those three words split him in two.
She was the may fly, here for a day, then gone. She was the last star, burning bright in a sea of limitless black.
Erase the human.
In a burst of blinding light, the star Cassiopeia exploded and the world went black.
Evan Walker had been undone.
”
”
Rick Yancey (The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3))
“
Inside this pencil
crouch words that have never been written
never been spoken
never been taught
they’re hiding
they’re awake in there
dark in the dark
hearing us
but they won’t come out
not for love not for time not for fire
even when the dark has worn away
they’ll still be there
hiding in the air
multitudes in days to come may walk through them
breathe them
be none the wiser
what script can it be
that they won’t unroll
in what language
would I recognize it
would I be able to follow it
to make out the real names
of everything
maybe there aren’t
many
it could be that there’s only one word
and it’s all we need
it’s here in this pencil
every pencil in the world
is like this
”
”
W.S. Merwin
“
If a book were written all in numbers, it would be true. It would be just. Nothing said in words ever came out quite even. Things in words got twisted and ran together, instead of staying straight and fitting together. But underneath the words, at the center, like the center of the Square, it all came out even. Everything could change, yet nothing would be lost. If you saw the numbers you could see that, the balance, the pattern. You saw the foundations of the world. And they were solid.
”
”
Ursula K. Le Guin (The Dispossessed: An Ambiguous Utopia)
“
WIDE, the margin between carte blanche and the white page. Nevertheless it is not in the margin that you can find me, but in the yet whiter one that separates the word-strewn sheet from the transparent, the written page from the one to be written in the infinite space where the eye turns back to the eye, and the hand to the pen, where all we write is erased, even as you write it. For the book imperceptibly takes shape within the book we will never finish.
There is my desert.
”
”
Edmond Jabès (The Book of Margins)
“
It is…difficult to describe someone, since memories are by their nature fragmented, isolated, and arbitrary as glimpses one has at night through lighted windows.
[E]very memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long.
”
”
Marilynne Robinson (Housekeeping)
“
The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love —
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.
— Anne Hathaway
”
”
Carol Ann Duffy (The World’s Wife)
“
Your job then, should you choose to accept it, is to keep searching for the metaphors, rituals and teachers that will help you move ever closer to divinity. The Yogic scriptures say that God responds to the sacred prayers and efforts of human beings in any way whatsoever that mortals choose to worship—just so long as those prayers are sincere.
I think you have every right to cherry-pick when it comes to moving your spirit and finding peace in God. I think you are free to search for any metaphor whatsoever which will take you across the worldly divide whenever you need to be transported or comforted. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s the history of mankind’s search for holiness. If humanity never evolved in its exploration of the divine, a lot of us would still be worshipping golden Egyptian statues of cats. And this evolution of religious thinking does involve a fair bit of cherry-picking. You take whatever works from wherever you can find it, and you keep moving toward the light.
The Hopi Indians thought that the world’s religions each contained one spiritual thread, and that these threads are always seeking each other, wanting to join. When all the threads are finally woven together they will form a rope that will pull us out of this dark cycle of history and into the next realm. More contemporarily, the Dalai Lama has repeated the same idea, assuring his Western students repeatedly that they needn’t become Tibetan Buddhists in order to be his pupils. He welcomes them to take whatever ideas they like out of Tibetan Buddhism and integrate these ideas into their own religious practices. Even in the most unlikely and conservative of places, you can find sometimes this glimmering idea that God might be bigger than our limited religious doctrines have taught us. In 1954, Pope Pius XI, of all people, sent some Vatican delegates on a trip to Libya with these written instructions: «Do NOT think that you are going among Infidels. Muslims attain salvation, too. The ways of Providence are infinite.»
But doesn’t that make sense? That the infinite would be, indeed … infinite? That even the most holy amongst us would only be able to see scattered pieces of the eternal picture at any given time? And that maybe if we could collect those pieces and compare them, a story about God would begin to emerge that resembles and includes everyone? And isn’t our individual longing for transcendence all just part of this larger human search for divinity? Don’t we each have the right to not stop seeking until we get as close to the source of wonder as possible? Even if it means coming to India and kissing trees in the moonlight for a while?
That’s me in the corner, in other words. That’s me in the spotlight. Choosing my religion.
”
”
Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love)
“
I would have written you, myself, if I could put down in words everything I want to say to you. A sea of ink would not be enough.”
“But you built me dreams instead,” Celia says, looking up at him. “And I built you tents you hardly ever see. I have had so much of you around me always and I have been unable to give you anything in return that you can keep.
”
”
Erin Morgenstern (The Night Circus)
“
It was in the spring that Josephine and I had first loved each other, or, at least, had first come into the full knowledge that we loved. I think that we must have loved each other all our lives, and that each succeeding spring was a word in the revelation of that love, not to be understood until, in the fullness of time, the whole sentence was written out in that most beautiful of all beautiful springs.
”
”
L.M. Montgomery (Further Chronicles of Avonlea)
“
Nameless is my price,” the king said. Aelin went still. “Nameless is my price,” his father repeated. The warning of an ancient witch, the damning words written on the back of the Amulet of Orynth. “For the bastard-born mark you bear, you are Nameless, yet am I not so as well?” He glanced between them, his eyes wide. “What is my name?” “This is ridiculous,” Dorian said through his teeth. “Your name is—” But where there should have been a name, only an empty hole existed.
”
”
Sarah J. Maas (Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass, #7))
“
When King Lear dies in Act V, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He’s written «He dies.» That’s all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is «He dies.» It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with «He dies.» And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it’s only natural to be sad, but not because of the words «He dies.» but because of the life we saw prior to the words.
”
”
Suzanne Weyn (Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium (Movie Novelization))
“
It [writing] has enormous meta-cognitive implications. The power is this: That you cannot only think in ways that you could not possibly think if you did not have the written word, but you can now think about the thinking that you do with the written word. There is danger in this, and the danger is that the enormous expressive and self-referential capacities of the written word, that is, the capacities to keep referring to referring to referring, will reach a point where you lose contact with the real world. And this, believe me, is very common in universities. There’s a technical name for it, I don’t know if we can use it on television, it’s called «bullshit.» But this is very common in academic life, where people just get a form of self-referentiality of the language, where the language is talking about the language, which is talking about the language, and in the end, it’s hot air. That’s another name for the same phenomenon.
”
”
John Rogers Searle
“
«Mom, Arnie Welsh keeps calling me a geek. He says it like it’s a bad thing. Is being a geek a bad thing?»
«Of course not, Soda Pop. And don’t listen to labels. They don’t matter.»
«What are labels?»
«It’s an imaginery sticker people slap on you with the word they think you are written on it. It doesn’t matter who they think you are. It matters who you think you are.»
«I think I might be a geek.»
She laughed. «Then you be a geek. Just be whatever makes you happy, Soda Pop, and I’ll be happy too.
”
”
Samantha Young (Before Jamaica Lane (On Dublin Street, #3))
“
I am, and always have been — first, last, and always — a child of America.
You raised me. I grew up in the pastures and hills of Texas, but I had been to thirty-four states before I learned how to drive. When I caught the stomach flu in the fifth grade, my mother sent a note to school written on the back of a holiday memo from Vice President Biden. Sorry, sir—we were in a rush, and it was the only paper she had on hand.
I spoke to you for the first time when I was eighteen, on the stage of the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, when I introduced my mother as the nominee for president. You cheered for me. I was young and full of hope, and you let me embody the American dream: that a boy who grew up speaking two languages, whose family was blended and beautiful and enduring, could make a home for himself in the White House.
You pinned the flag to my lapel and said, “We’re rooting for you.” As I stand before you today, my hope is that I have not let you down.
Years ago, I met a prince. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, his country had raised him too.
The truth is, Henry and I have been together since the beginning of this year. The truth is, as many of you have read, we have both struggled every day with what this means for our families, our countries, and our futures. The truth is, we have both had to make compromises that cost us sleep at night in order to afford us enough time to share our relationship with the world on our own terms.
We were not afforded that liberty.
But the truth is, also, simply this: love is indomitable. America has always believed this. And so, I am not ashamed to stand here today where presidents have stood and say that I love him, the same as Jack loved Jackie, the same as Lyndon loved Lady Bird. Every person who bears a legacy makes the choice of a partner with whom they will share it, whom the American people will “hold beside them in hearts and memories and history books. America: He is my choice.
Like countless other Americans, I was afraid to say this out loud because of what the consequences might be. To you, specifically, I say: I see you. I am one of you. As long as I have a place in this White House, so will you. I am the First Son of the United States, and I’m bisexual. History will remember us.
If I can ask only one thing of the American people, it’s this: Please, do not let my actions influence your decision in November. The decision you will make this year is so much bigger than anything I could ever say or do, and it will determine the fate of this country for years to come. My mother, your president, is the warrior and the champion that each and every American deserves for four more years of growth, progress, and prosperity. Please, don’t let my actions send us backward. I ask the media not to focus on me or on Henry, but on the campaign, on policy, on the lives and livelihoods of millions of Americans at stake in this election.
And finally, I hope America will remember that I am still the son you raised. My blood still runs from Lometa, Texas, and San Diego, California, and Mexico City. I still remember the sound of your voices from that stage in Philadelphia. I wake up every morning thinking of your hometowns, of the families I’ve met at rallies in Idaho and Oregon and South Carolina. I have never hoped to be anything other than what I was to you then, and what I am to you now—the First Son, yours in actions and words. And I hope when Inauguration Day comes again in January, I will continue to be.
”
”
Casey McQuiston (Red, White & Royal Blue)
“
The scriptures are like a written “recording” of the “voice” of the Lord—a voice we feel in our hearts more than we hear with our ears. As we study the written word of God, we learn to hear His voice in the words we read. As we return repeatedly to the holy scriptures, we gain experience and confidence in hearing and feeling His voice.
Five basic principles can help us learn more effectively from our personal scripture study.
1. Pray for understanding and invite the help of the Holy Ghost.
Begin scripture study with prayer.
Ask for understanding as you study.
Express gratitude as you conclude.
2. Work.
Pay the price of regular and diligent study.
3. Be consistent.
Set aside a specific and scheduled time each day.
4. Ponder.
Think about the truths, experiences, and lessons in the scriptures.
Take time—pondering cannot be forced, hurried, or rushed.
5. Write down impressions, thoughts, and feelings.
Record what you learn, think, and feel.
Invite the Holy Ghost to continue instruction.
”
”
David A. Bednar
“
What’s strange about the whole thing is that although it’s riddled with nonsense, altogether it’s true — Julie’s told our story, mine and hers, our friendship, so truthfully. It is us. We even had the same dream at the same time. How could we have had the same dream at the same time? How can something so wonderful and mysterious be true? But it is.
And this, even more wonderful and mysterious, is also true: when I read it, when I read what Julie’s written, she is instantly alive again, whole and undamaged. With her words in my mind while I’m reading, she is as real as I am. Gloriously daft, drop-dead charming, full of bookish nonsense and foul language, brave and generous. She’s right here. Afraid and exhausted, alone, but fighting. Flying in silver moonlight in a plane that can’t be landed, stuck in the climb — alive, alive, ALIVE.
”
”
Elizabeth Wein (Code Name Verity (Code Name Verity #1))
“
No other library anywhere, for example, has a whole gallery of unwritten books — books that would have been written if the author hadn’t been eaten by an alligator around chapter 1, and so on. Atlases of imaginary places. Dictionaries of illusory words. Spotter’s guides to invisible things. Wild thesauri in the Lost Reading Room. A library so big that it distorts reality and has opened gateways to all other libraries, everywhere and everywhen…
”
”
Terry Pratchett (Small Gods (Discworld, #13))
“
Dearest creature in creation,
Study English pronunciation.
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you, Suzy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy.
Tear in eye, your dress will tear.
So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.
Just compare heart, beard, and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain.
(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as plaque and ague.
But be careful how you speak:
Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.
Hear me say, devoid of trickery,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles;
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far;
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;
Gertrude, German, wind and mind,
Scene, Melpomene, mankind.
Billet does not rhyme with ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation’s OK
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.
Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
And enamour rhyme with hammer.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger,
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.
Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual.
Refer does not rhyme with deafer.
Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate;
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific.
Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, panel, and canal,
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor.
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.
Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.
Heron, granary, canary.
Crevice and device and aerie.
Face, but preface, not efface.
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.
Pronunciation (think of Psyche!)
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won’t it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits?
It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.
Finally, which rhymes with enough,
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!
”
”
Gerard Nolst Trenité (Drop your Foreign Accent)
“
Cigarettes and Whiskey and Wild, Wild Women»
Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.
Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was—
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time.
”
”
Anne Sexton
“
A lot is being said today about the influence that the myths and images of women have on all of us who are products of culture. I think it has been a peculiar confusion to the girl or woman who tries to write because she is peculiarly susceptible to language. She goes to poetry or fiction looking for her way of being in the world, since she too has been putting words and images together; she is looking eagerly for guides, maps, possibilities; and over and over in the ‘words’ masculine persuasive force’ of literature she comes up against something that negates everything she is about: she meets the image of Woman in books written by men.
”
”
Adrienne Rich (On Lies, Secrets, and Silence. Selected Prose 1966-1978)
“
I am my mother’s caresses, and the serene kindness with which my father calmly guided me; I am my adolescent travels; I am what my reading has deposited in layers in my mind; I am my loves, my moments of despair, my friendships, what I’ve written, what I’ve heard; the faces engraved on my memory. I am, above all, the one who a minute ago made a cup of tea for himself. The one who a moment ago typed the word “memory” into his computer. The one who just composed the sentence that I am now completing. If all this disappeared, would I still exist? I am this long, ongoing novel. My life consists of it.
”
”
Carlo Rovelli (L’ordine del tempo)
“
Were the world a just place and given into Poet Eanrin’s hands to dictate, he would have written things as they ought to be. Lionheart would not have bowed like some wooden puppet and left without another word. He would have acted like a man, taken the silver-eyed queen into his arms, and kissed her! He would have told her all the things in his heart that he did not fully understand yet, because, honestly, who ever understands those things anyway?
But some stories refuse to play themselves out the way poets think they ought.
”
”
Anne Elisabeth Stengl
“
Your love is different from mine. What I mean is, when you close your eyes, for that moment, the center of the universe comes to reside within you. And you become a small figure within that vastness, which spreads without limit behind you, and continues to expand at tremendous speed, to engulf all of my past, even before I was born, and every word I’ve ever written, and each view I’ve seen, and all the constellations, and the darkness of outer space that surrounds the small blue ball that is earth. Then, when you open your eyes, all that disappears.
I anticipate the next time you are troubled and must close your eyes again.
The way we think may be completely different, but you and I are an ancient, archetypal couple, the original man and woman. We are the model for Adam and Eve. For all couples in love, there comes a moment when a man gazes at a woman with the very same kind of realization. It is an infinite helix, the dance of two souls resonating, like the twist of DNA, like the vast universe.
Oddly, at that moment, she looked over at me and smiled. As if in response to what I’d been thinking, she said, «That was beautiful. I’ll never forget it.
”
”
Banana Yoshimoto (Lizard)
“
I`ve got a black woolen hat and it`s got Pervert written across the front of it. It`s the name of the clothing label. And I was with my wife and my baby at the supermarket and I didn`t think. I just put my hat on Clara`s head, because it was cold. And the looks. I couldn`t figure out why I was getting death looks. And then I realized my 10-month old baby`s wearing a hat with the word Pervert written on it and these people were like, `There`s Satan! There`s Satan out with his kid!` And then I made a point of her wearing it every time we went there.
”
”
Ewan McGregor
“
What a wee little part of a person’s life are his acts and his words! His real life is lead in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, and every day, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, (which are but the mute articulation of his feelings,) not those other things are his history. His acts and his words are merely the visible thin crust of his world, with its scattered snow summits and its vacant wastes of water-and they are so trifling a part of his bulk! a mere skin enveloping it. The mass of him is hidden-it and its volcanic fires that toss and boil, and never rest, night nor day. These are his life, and they are not written, and cannot be written.
”
”
Mark Twain (The Autobiography of Mark Twain)
“
Remember that for all the books we have in print, are as many that have never reached print, have never been written down-even now, in this age of compulsive reverence for the written word, history, even social ethic, are taught by means of stories, and the people who have been conditioned into thinking only in terms of what is written-and unfortunately nearly all the products of our educational system can do no more than this-are missing what is before their eyes. For instance, the real history of Africa is still in the custody of black storytellers and wise men, black historians, medicine men: it is a verbal history, still kept safe from the white man and his predations. Everywhere, if you keep your mind open, you will find the words not written down. So never let the printed page be your master. Above all, you should know that the fact that you have to spend one year, or two years, on one book, or one author means that you are badly taught-you should have been taught to read your way from one sympathy to another, you should be learning to follow you own intuitive feeling about what you need; that is what you should have been developing, not the way to quote from other people.
”
”
Doris Lessing
“
For a while, Criticism travels side by side with the Work, then Criticism vanishes and it’s the Readers who keep pace. The journey may be long or short. Then the Readers die one by one and the Work continues on alone, although a new Criticism and new Readers gradually fall into step with it along its path. Then Criticism dies again and the Readers die again and the Work passes over a trail of bones on its journey toward solitude. To come near the work, to sail in her wake, is a sign of certain death, but new Criticism and new Readers approach her tirelessly and relentlessly and are devoured by time and speed. Finally the Work journeys irremediably alone in the Great Vastness. And one day the Work dies, as all things must die and come to an end: the Sun and the Earth and the Solar System and the Galaxy and the farthest reaches of man’s memory. Everything that begins as comedy ends in tragedy.
”
”
Roberto Bolaño (The Savage Detectives)
“
I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me. I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.
NOTE: She neither said nor wrote this quote. Just because you saw it on Facebook does not mean it’s true. Snopes is your friend. The quote was written by José Micard Teixeira
”
”
Meryl Streep
“
Why are there such long words in the world, Miss?’ enquires Sophie, when the mineralogy lesson is over.
‘One long difficult word is the same as a whole sentence full of short easy ones, Sophie,’ says Sugar. ‘It saves time and paper.’ Seeing that the child is unconvinced, she adds, ‘If books were written in such a way that every person, no matter how young, could understand everything in them, they would be enormously long books. Would you wish to read a book that was a thousand pages long, Sophie?’
Sophie answers without hesitation.
‘I would read a thousand million pages, Miss, if all the words were words I could understand.
”
”
Michel Faber (The Crimson Petal and the White)
“
Fiction has two uses. Firstly, it’s a gateway drug to reading. The drive to know what happens next, to want to turn the page, the need to keep going, even if it’s hard, because someone’s in trouble and you have to know how it’s all going to end … that’s a very real drive. And it forces you to learn new words, to think new thoughts, to keep going. To discover that reading per se is pleasurable. Once you learn that, you’re on the road to reading everything. And reading is key. There were noises made briefly, a few years ago, about the idea that we were living in a post-literate world, in which the ability to make sense out of written words was somehow redundant, but those days are gone: words are more important than they ever were: we navigate the world with words, and as the world slips onto the web, we need to follow, to communicate and to comprehend what we are reading. People who cannot understand each other cannot exchange ideas, cannot communicate, and translation programs only go so far.
The simplest way to make sure that we raise literate children is to teach them to read, and to show them that reading is a pleasurable activity. And that means, at its simplest, finding books that they enjoy, giving them access to those books, and letting them read them.
I don’t think there is such a thing as a bad book for children. Every now and again it becomes fashionable among some adults to point at a subset of children’s books, a genre, perhaps, or an author, and to declare them bad books, books that children should be stopped from reading. I’ve seen it happen over and over; Enid Blyton was declared a bad author, so was RL Stine, so were dozens of others. Comics have been decried as fostering illiteracy.
It’s tosh. It’s snobbery and it’s foolishness. There are no bad authors for children, that children like and want to read and seek out, because every child is different. They can find the stories they need to, and they bring themselves to stories. A hackneyed, worn-out idea isn’t hackneyed and worn out to them. This is the first time the child has encountered it. Do not discourage children from reading because you feel they are reading the wrong thing. Fiction you do not like is a route to other books you may prefer. And not everyone has the same taste as you.
Well-meaning adults can easily destroy a child’s love of reading: stop them reading what they enjoy, or give them worthy-but-dull books that you like, the 21st-century equivalents of Victorian “improving” literature. You’ll wind up with a generation convinced that reading is uncool and worse, unpleasant.
We need our children to get onto the reading ladder: anything that they enjoy reading will move them up, rung by rung, into literacy.
[from, Why our future depends on libraries, reading and daydreaming]
”
”
Neil Gaiman
“
Tom Paine has almost no influence on present-day thinking in the United States because he is unknown to the average citizen. Perhaps I might say right here that this is a national loss and a deplorable lack of understanding concerning the man who first proposed and first wrote those impressive words, ‘the United States of America.’
But it is hardly strange.
Paine’s teachings have been debarred from schools everywhere and his views of life misrepresented until his memory is hidden in shadows, or he is looked upon as of unsound mind.
We never had a sounder intelligence in this Republic. He was the equal of Washington in making American liberty possible. Where Washington performed Paine devised and wrote. The deeds of one in the Weld were matched by the deeds of the other with his pen.
Washington himself appreciated Paine at his true worth. Franklin knew him for a great patriot and clear thinker. He was a friend and confidant of Jefferson, and the two must often have debated the academic and practical phases of liberty.
I consider Paine our greatest political thinker. As we have not advanced, and perhaps never shall advance, beyond the Declaration and Constitution, so Paine has had no successors who extended his principles. Although the present generation knows little of Paine’s writings, and although he has almost no influence upon contemporary thought, Americans of the future will justly appraise his work. I am certain of it.
Truth is governed by natural laws and cannot be denied. Paine spoke truth with a peculiarly clear and forceful ring. Therefore time must balance the scales. The Declaration and the Constitution expressed in form Paine’s theory of political rights. He worked in Philadelphia at the time that the first document was written, and occupied a position of intimate contact with the nation’s leaders when they framed the Constitution.
Certainly we may believe that Washington had a considerable voice in the Constitution. We know that Jefferson had much to do with the document. Franklin also had a hand and probably was responsible in even larger measure for the Declaration. But all of these men had communed with Paine. Their views were intimately understood and closely correlated. There is no doubt whatever that the two great documents of American liberty reflect the philosophy of Paine.
…Then Paine wrote ‘Common Sense,’ an anonymous tract which immediately stirred the fires of liberty. It flashed from hand to hand throughout the Colonies. One copy reached the New York Assembly, in session at Albany, and a night meeting was voted to answer this unknown writer with his clarion call to liberty. The Assembly met, but could find no suitable answer. Tom Paine had inscribed a document which never has been answered adversely, and never can be, so long as man esteems his priceless possession.
In ‘Common Sense’ Paine flared forth with a document so powerful that the Revolution became inevitable. Washington recognized the difference, and in his calm way said that matters never could be the same again. It must be remembered that ‘Common Sense’ preceded the declaration and affirmed the very principles that went into the national doctrine of liberty. But that affirmation was made with more vigor, more of the fire of the patriot and was exactly suited to the hour… Certainly [the Revolution] could not be forestalled, once he had spoken.
{The Philosophy of Paine, June 7, 1925}
”
”
Thomas A. Edison (Diary and Sundry Observations of Thomas Alva Edison)
“
Nobody reads poetry, we are told at every inopportune moment. I read poetry. I am somebody. I am the people, too. It can be allowed that an industrious quantity of contemporary American poetry is consciously written for a hermetic constituency; the bulk is written for the bourgeoisie, leaving a lean cut for labor. Only the hermetically aimed has a snowball’s chance in hell of reaching its intended ears. One proceeds from this realization. A staggering figure of vibrant, intelligent people can and do live without poetry, especially without the poetry of their time. This figure includes the unemployed, the rank and file, the union brass, banker, scientist, lawyer, doctor, architect, pilot, and priest. It also includes most academics, most of the faculty of the humanities, most allegedly literary editors and most allegedly literary critics. They do so—go forward in their lives, toward their great reward, in an engulfing absence of poetry—without being perceived or perceiving themselves as hobbled or deficient in any significant way. It is nearly true, though I am often reminded of a Transtromer broadside I saw in a crummy office building in San Francisco:
We got dressed and showed the house
You live well the visitor said
The slum must be inside you.
If I wanted to understand a culture, my own for instance, and if I thought such an understanding were the basis for a lifelong inquiry, I would turn to poetry first. For it is my confirmed bias that the poets remain the most ‘stunned by existence,’ the most determined to redeem the world in words..
”
”
C.D. Wright (Cooling Time: An American Poetry Vigil)
“
At that moment it seemed to him that time stood still and the soul of the world surged within him. When he looked into her dark eyes and saw that her lips were poised between a laugh and silence, he learned the most important part of the language that all the world spoke. The language that everyone on earth was capable of understanding in their heart. It was love. Something older than humanity, more ancient than the desert. Something that exerted the same force whenever two pairs of eyes met, as had theirs here at the well. She smiled, and that was certainly an omen. The omen he had been awaiting without even knowing he was for all his life. The omen he sought to find in his sheep and in his books. In the crystals and in the silence of the desert… It was the pure language of the world. It required no explanation, just as the universe needs none as it travels through endless time. What the boy felt at that moment was that he was in the presence of the only woman in his life. And that, with no need for words she recognized the same thing. He was more certain of it, than of anything in the world. He had been told by his parents and grandparents that he must fall in love and really know a person before becoming committed. But maybe people who felt that way never learned the universal language. Because when you know that language, its easy to understand that someone in the world awaits you. Whether its in the middle of the desert or in some great city. And when two such people encounter each other, and their eyes meet, the past and the future become unimportant. There is only that moment, and the incredible certainty that everything under the sun has been written by one hand only. It is the hand that evokes love and makes a twin soul for every person in the world. Without such love, one’s dreams would have no meaning. Maktub..
”
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Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist)
“
The office Halloween party was at the Royalton last week and I went as a mass murderer, complete with a sign painted on my back that read MASS MURDERER (which was decidedly lighter than the sandwich board I had constructed earlier that day that read DRILLER KILLER), and beneath those two words I had written in blood Yep, that’s me and the suit was also covered with blood, some of it fake, most of it real. In one fist I clenched a hank of Victoria Bell’s hair, and pinned next to my boutonniere (a small white rose) was a finger bone I’d boiled the flesh off of. As elaborate as my costume was, Craig McDermott still managed to win first place in the competition. He came as Ivan Boesky, which I thought was unfair since a lot of people thought I’d gone as Michael Milken last year. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Home Abortion Kits.
”
”
Bret Easton Ellis (American Psycho)
“
All fiction is metaphor. Science fiction is metaphor. What sets it apart
from older forms of fiction seems to be its use of new metaphors, drawn from
certain great dominants of our contemporary life — science, all the sciences,
and technology, and the relativistic and the historical outlook, among them.
Space travel is one of these metaphors; so is an alternative society, an
alternative biology; the future is another. The future, in fiction, is a
metaphor.
A metaphor for what?
If I could have said it non-metaphorically, I would not have written all these
words, this novel; and Genly Ai would never have sat down at my desk and used
up my ink and typewriter ribbon in informing me, and you, rather solemnly,
that the truth is a matter of the imagination.
”
”
Ursula K. Le Guin
“
My job is not to sell the books — my father does that — but to look after them. Every so often I take out a volume and read a page or two. After all, reading is looking after in a manner of speaking. Though they’re not old enough to be valuable for their age alone, nor improtant enough to be sought after by collectors, my charges are dear to me, even as often as not, they are as dull on the inside as on the outside. No matter how banal the contents, there is always something that touches me. For someone now dead once thought these words significant enough to write them down.
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the boooks they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. I clean them, do minor repairs, keep them in good order. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so. For it must be very lonely being dead.
”
”
Diane Setterfield (The Thirteenth Tale)
“
Dandelion, staring into the dying embers, sat much longer, alone, quietly strumming his lute. It began with a few bars, from which an elegant, soothing melody emerged. The lyric suited the melody, and came into being simultaneously with it, the words bending into the music, becoming set in it like insects in translucent, golden lumps of amber.
The ballad told of a certain witcher and a certain poet. About how the witcher and the poet met on the seashore, among the crying of seagulls, and how they fell in love at first sight. About how beautiful and powerful was their love. About how nothing — not even death — was able to destroy that love and part them.
Dandelion knew that few would believe the story told by the ballad, but he was not concerned. He knew ballads were not written to be believed, but to move their audience.
Several years later, Dandelion could have changed the contents of the ballad and written about what had really occurred. He did not. For the true story would not have move anyone. Who would have wanted to hear that the Witcher and Little Eye parted and never, ever, saw each other again? About how four years later Little Eye died of the smallpox during an epidemic raging in Vizima? About how he, Dandelion, had carried her out in his arms between corpses being cremated on funeral pyres and buried her far from the city, in the forest, alone and peaceful, and, as she had asked, buried two things with her: her lute and her sky blue pearl. The pearl from which she was never parted.
No, Dandelion stuck with his first version. And he never sang it. Never. To no one.
Right before the dawn, while it was still dark, a hungry, vicious werewolf crept up to their camp, but saw that it was Dandelion, so he listened for a moment and then went on his way.
”
”
Andrzej Sapkowski (Miecz przeznaczenia (Saga o Wiedźminie, #0.7))
“
I’ve become obsessed. I carry her notebook with me everywhere I go, spending all my free moments trying to decipher the words she’s scribbled in the margins, developing stories to go along with the numbers she’s written down.
I’ve also noticed that the last page is missing. Ripped out.
I can’t help but wonder why. I’ve searched through the book a hundred times, looking for other sections where pages might be gone, but I’ve found none. And somehow I feel cheated, knowing there’s a piece I might’ve missed. It’s not even my journal; it’s none of my business at all, but I’ve read her words so many times now that they feel like my own. I can practically recite them from memory.
It’s strange being in her head without being able to see her. I feel like she’s here, right in front of me. I feel like I now know her so intimately, so privately. I’m safe in the company of her thoughts; I feel welcome, somehow. Understood. So much so that some days I manage to forget that she’s the one who put this bullet hole in my arm.
I almost forget that she still hates me, despite how hard I’ve fallen for her.
And I’ve fallen.
So hard.
I’ve hit the ground. Gone right through it.
”
”
Tahereh Mafi (Destroy Me (Shatter Me, #1.5))
“
Kaitlyn remebered the things he’d given her, the sun-flooded afternoons, and the cool healing ocean waves, and the music he’d written. He’d given her everything that was best in him, everything he was.
She wanted to give him the same thing back.
I don’t know how you can love me. The words came soflty, as if he were thinking them to himself. You’ve seen what I am.
That’s why I do love you, Kaitlyn told him. I hope you’ll still love me when you see what I am.
«I know what you are, Kait. Everything beautiful and brave and gallant and…» He stopped as if his throat had closed. «Everything that makes me want to be better for you. That makes me sorry I’m such a stupid mess…»
You looked like a knight with that shard, Kaitlyn said, moving toward him.
«Really?» He laughed shakily.
My knight. And I never said thank you.
She was almost touching him, now. Looking up into his eyes. What she could feel in him was something she’d only felt before when she gave him her life energy. Childlike, marveling joy. Trust and vulnerability. And such love…
Then she was in his arms and they weren’t separate beings any longer. Their minds were together, sharing thoughts, sharing happiness beyond thought. Sharing everything.
She never even knew whether he kissed her.
”
”
L.J. Smith (Dark Visions (Dark Visions, #1-3))
“
A skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no words written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished because undisturbed: and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem; but undue length is yet more to be avoided.
”
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Edgar Allan Poe
“
At first she thought the writing would be easy. She was extremely confident in her ability to dream, to imagine, and she supposed that expressing her dreams in words, in writing, would be entirely natural, like drawing breath. She had read widely from the time she was a child, and she knew how to recognize something that was well written. She admired certain lines and passages so much that she had taken complete possession of them and committed them to memory. She could recite “The Gettysburg Address” and “The Twenty-Third Psalm.” She could recite “Jabberwocky” and Emily Dickinson’s “Further in summer that the birds” and Wallace Stevens’s “Sunday Morning.” She knew by heart the final paragraph of Joyce’s “The Dead,” and if challenged she could say in whole the parts of both Romeo and Juliet. And she knew many Kiowa stories and many long prayers in Navajo. These were not feats of memory in the ordinary sense; it was simply that she attended to these things so closely that they became a part of her most personal experience. She had assumed them, appropriated them to her being.
But to write! She discovered that was something else again.
”
”
N. Scott Momaday (The Ancient Child)
“
I saw the folded note peeking up from behind the cover of the book in which I’d hidden it.
I brushed my fingertips across the lineny surface, my skin sparking with electricity, my fingers itching to pull it free.
I shoudn’t, I told myself, even as I held my breath and watched myself withdrawing it from the book. I tried to tamp down the feeling of anticipation coursing through me at the same time I argued that it was a mistake to look at it again.
It didn’t deserve anymore of my time. He didn’t deserve the space he already occupied in my mind.
I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed me there, tucked beneath my desk, reading a note that I’d already memorized.
No one paid me any attention.
I held the letter, vividly picturing the six words written inside the folds. Six words that I already knew by heart. Six words that meant more to me than they should.
I unfolded the top third of the paper, then the bottom, purposely keeping my eyes unfocused for just a moment.
My heart stopped.
And then my eyesight cleared.
I pledge to keep you safe.
”
”
Kimberly Derting (The Pledge (The Pledge, #1))
“
You’ll get over it…’ It’s the cliches that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it’ is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to greive over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?
I’ve thought a lot about death recently, the finality of it, the argument ending in mid-air. One of us hadn’t finished, why did the other one go? And why without warning? Even death after long illness is without warning. The moment you had prepared for so carefully took you by storm. The troops broke through the window and snatched the body and the body is gone. The day before the Wednesday last, this time a year ago, you were here and now you’re not. Why not? Death reduces us to the baffled logic of a small child. If yesterday why not today? And where are you?
Fragile creatures of a small blue planet, surrounded by light years of silent space. Do the dead find peace beyond the rattle of the world? What peace is there for us whose best love cannot return them even for a day? I raise my head to the door and think I will see you in the frame. I know it is your voice in the corridor but when I run outside the corridor is empty. There is nothing I can do that will make any difference. The last word was yours.
The fluttering in the stomach goes away and the dull waking pain. Sometimes I think of you and I feel giddy. Memory makes me lightheaded, drunk on champagne. All the things we did. And if anyone had said this was the price I would have agreed to pay it. That surprises me; that with the hurt and the mess comes a shaft of recognition. It was worth it. Love is worth it.
”
”
Jeanette Winterson (Written on the Body)
“
If the people of Europe had known as much of astronomy and geology when the bible was introduced among them, as they do now, there never could have been one believer in the doctrine of inspiration. If the writers of the various parts of the bible had known as much about the sciences as is now known by every intelligent man, the book never could have been written. It was produced by ignorance, and has been believed and defended by its author. It has lost power in the proportion that man has gained knowledge. A few years ago, this book was appealed to in the settlement of all scientific questions; but now, even the clergy confess that in such matters, it has ceased to speak with the voice of authority. For the establishment of facts, the word of man is now considered far better than the word of God. In the world of science, Jehovah was superseded by Copernicus, Galileo, and Kepler. All that God told Moses, admitting the entire account to be true, is dust and ashes compared to the discoveries of Descartes, Laplace, and Humboldt. In matters of fact, the bible has ceased to be regarded as a standard. Science has succeeded in breaking the chains of theology. A few years ago, Science endeavored to show that it was not inconsistent with the bible. The tables have been turned, and now, Religion is endeavoring to prove that the bible is not inconsistent with Science. The standard has been changed.
”
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Robert G. Ingersoll (Some Mistakes of Moses)
“
Of all the sciences cultivated by mankind, Astronomy is acknowledged to be, and undoubtedly is, the most sublime, the most interesting, and the most useful. For, by knowledge derived from this science, not only the bulk of the Earth is discovered . . . ; but our very faculties are enlarged with the grandeur of the ideas it conveys, our minds exalted above [their] low contracted prejudices.»
JAMES FERGUSON, 1757†
Long before anyone knew that the universe had a beginning, before we knew that the nearest large galaxy lies two million light-years from Earth, before we knew how stars work or whether atoms exist, James Ferguson’s enthusiastic introduction to his favorite science rang true. Yet his words, apart from their eighteenth-century flourish, could have been written yesterday.
But who gets to think that way? Who gets to celebrate this cosmic view of life? Not the migrant farmworker. Not the sweatshop worker. Certainly not the homeless person rummaging through the trash for food. You need the luxury of time not spent on mere survival. You need to live in a nation whose government values the search to understand humanity’s place in the universe. You need a society in which intellectual pursuit can take you to the frontiers of discovery, and in which news of your discoveries can be routinely disseminated.
”
”
Neil deGrasse Tyson (Astrophysics for People in a Hurry)
“
Beauty is the only human aspect which cannot be captured on any canvas howsoever hard an artist tries. At the most, the undaunted artist can replicate the beauty on paper but what is a replica in comparison to the original! The humbling resemblance can only be respected, not truly adored.
Beauty cannot be imprisoned in the lens of a camera. The images of beauty are a moment of its essence. Beauty cannot be displayed to evoke pleasure for all on a cinema screen. Those are just its imprints, mere illusions of its existence. Beauty cannot be described by words; it cannot be written or read about. There are no suitable words in all the languages of the world, ancient or modern to hold it between a paper and a pen or a script and an eye. Beauty can only be experienced from far, its delightful aroma can only be tasted through one’s eyes and its pleasurable sight can only be felt from the soul.
Beauty can only be best described at its origin through a befuddling silence, the kind that leaves one almost on the verge of a pleasurable death, just because one chooses beauty over life. There is nothing in this world to hold something so pure, so divine except a loving heart. And it is the only manner through which love recognises love; the language of love has no alphabet, no words.
”
”
Faraaz Kazi
“
Excerpt from Ursula K Le Guin’s speech at National Book Awards
Hard times are coming, when we’ll be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now, can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being, and even imagine real grounds for hope. We’ll need writers who can remember freedom – poets, visionaries – realists of a larger reality.
Right now, we need writers who know the difference between production of a market commodity and the practice of an art. Developing written material to suit sales strategies in order to maximise corporate profit and advertising revenue is not the same thing as responsible book publishing or authorship.
Yet I see sales departments given control over editorial. I see my own publishers, in a silly panic of ignorance and greed, charging public libraries for an e-book six or seven times more than they charge customers. We just saw a profiteer try to punish a publisher for disobedience, and writers threatened by corporate fatwa. And I see a lot of us, the producers, who write the books and make the books, accepting this – letting commodity profiteers sell us like deodorant, and tell us what to publish, what to write.
Books aren’t just commodities; the profit motive is often in conflict with the aims of art. We live in capitalism, its power seems inescapable – but then, so did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art. Very often in our art, the art of words.
I’ve had a long career as a writer, and a good one, in good company. Here at the end of it, I don’t want to watch American literature get sold down the river. We who live by writing and publishing want and should demand our fair share of the proceeds; but the name of our beautiful reward isn’t profit. Its name is freedom.
”
”
Ursula K. Le Guin
“
Does rough weather choose men over women? Does the sun beat on men, leaving women nice and cool?’ Nyawira asked rather sharply. ‘Women bear the brunt of poverty. What choices does a woman have in life, especially in times of misery? She can marry or live with a man. She can bear children and bring them up, and be abused by her man. Have you read Buchi Emecheta of Nigeria, Joys of Motherhood? Tsitsi Dangarembga of Zimbabwe, say, Nervous Conditions? Miriama Ba of Senegal, So Long A Letter? Three women from different parts of Africa, giving words to similar thoughts about the condition of women in Africa.’
‘I am not much of a reader of fiction,’ Kamiti said. ‘Especially novels by African women. In India such books are hard to find.’
‘Surely even in India there are women writers? Indian women writers?’ Nyawira pressed. ‘Arundhati Roy, for instance, The God of Small Things? Meena Alexander, Fault Lines? Susie Tharu. Read Women Writing in India. Or her other book, We Were Making History, about women in the struggle!’
‘I have sampled the epics of Indian literature,’ Kamiti said, trying to redeem himself. ‘Mahabharata, Ramayana, and mostly Bhagavad Gita. There are a few others, what they call Purana, Rig-Veda, Upanishads … Not that I read everything, but …’
‘I am sure that those epics and Puranas, even the Gita, were all written by men,’ Nyawira said. ‘The same men who invented the caste system. When will you learn to listen to the voices of women?
”
”
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o (Wizard of the Crow)
“
Make a ritual ablution before each prayer, beginning every action with «In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.» First wash your hands, intending to pull them away from the affairs of this world. Then wash your mouth, remember and reciting God’s name, purifying it in order to utter His Name. Wash your nose wishing to inhale the perfumes of the Divine. Wash your face feeling shame, and intending to wipe from it arrogance and hypocrisy. Wash your forearms trusting God to make you do what is good. Wet the top of your head feeling humility and wash your ears (in preparation) to hear the address of your Lord. Wash from your feet the dirt of the world so that you don’t stain the sands of Paradise. Then thank and praise the Lord, and send prayers of peace and blessing upon our Master, who brought the canons of Islam and taught them to us.
After you leave the place of your ablution without turning your back to it, perform two cycles of prayer out of hope and thankfulness for His making you clean.
Next, stand in the place where you are going to make your prayers as if between the two hands of your Lord. Imagine, without forms and lines, that you are facing the Ka’bah, and that there is no one else on the face of this earth but you. Bring yourself to express your servanthood physically. Choose the verses you are going to recite, understanding their meanings within you. With the verses that start with «Say…» feel that you are talking to your Lord as He wishes you to do: let every word contain praise. Allow time between the sentences, contemplating what our Master, the Messenger of God, gave us, trying to keep it in your heart. Believing that your destiny is written on your forehead, place it humbly on the floor in prostration. When you finish and give salutations to your right and to your left, keep your eyes on yourself and your connection with your Lord, for you are saluting the One under whose power you are and who is within you…
”
”
Ibn Arabi
“
Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that’s landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end
of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there’s two kinds
of women—those you write poems about
and those you don’t. It’s true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane’s Addiction
lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast
as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don’t have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power
never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely
a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,
as if I invented it, but I’m still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven’t developed
antibodies for your smile. I don’t know how long
regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don’t know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light
of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that’s just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing
into each other’s ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn’t make the silence
any easier to navigate. I’m sorry all the kisses
I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out
of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you’d press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I’m sorry this poem has taken thirteen years
to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade’s precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we’d put our hands away like chocolate
to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other’s eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn’t be said.
”
”
Jeffrey McDaniel
“
Dear Jim.»
The writing grew suddenly blurred and misty. And she had lost him again—had lost him again! At the sight of the familiar childish nickname all the hopelessness of her bereavement came over her afresh, and she put out her hands in blind desperation, as though the weight of the earth-clods that lay above him were pressing on her heart.
Presently she took up the paper again and went on reading:
«I am to be shot at sunrise to-morrow. So if I am to keep at all my promise to tell you everything, I must keep it now. But, after all, there is not much need of explanations between you and me. We always understood each other without many words, even when we were little things.
«And so, you see, my dear, you had no need to break your heart over that old story of the blow. It was a hard hit, of course; but I have had plenty of others as hard, and yet I have managed to get over them,—even to pay back a few of them,—and here I am still, like the mackerel in our nursery-book (I forget its name), ‘Alive and kicking, oh!’ This is my last kick, though; and then, tomorrow morning, and—‘Finita la Commedia!’ You and I will translate that: ‘The variety show is over’; and will give thanks to the gods that they have had, at least, so much mercy on us. It is not much, but it is something; and for this and all other blessings may we be truly thankful!
«About that same tomorrow morning, I want both you and Martini to understand clearly that I am quite happy and satisfied, and could ask no better thing of Fate. Tell that to Martini as a message from me; he is a good fellow and a good comrade, and he will understand. You see, dear, I know that the stick-in-the-mud people are doing us a good turn and themselves a bad one by going back to secret trials and executions so soon, and I know that if you who are left stand together steadily and hit hard, you will see great things. As for me, I shall go out into the courtyard with as light a heart as any child starting home for the holidays. I have done my share of the work, and this death-sentence is the proof that I have done it thoroughly. They kill me because they are afraid of me; and what more can any man’s heart desire?
«It desires just one thing more, though. A man who is going to die has a right to a personal fancy, and mine is that you should see why I have always been such a sulky brute to you, and so slow to forget old scores. Of course, though, you understand why, and I tell you only for the pleasure of writing the words. I loved you, Gemma, when you were an ugly little girl in a gingham frock, with a scratchy tucker and your hair in a pig-tail down your back; and I love you still. Do you remember that day when I kissed your hand, and when you so piteously begged me ‘never to do that again’? It was a scoundrelly trick to play, I know; but you must forgive that; and now I kiss the paper where I have written your name. So I have kissed you twice, and both times without your consent.
«That is all. Good-bye, my dear»
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die
”
”
Ethel Lilian Voynich
“
We have time for everything:
to sleep, to run from one place to another,
to regret having mistaken and to mistake again,
to judge the others and to forgive
ourselves
we have time for reading and writing,
for making corrections to our texts, to regret ever having
written
we have time to make plans and time not to respect them,
we have time for ambitions and sicknesses,
time to blame the destiny and the details,
we have time to watch the clouds, advertisements or
some ordinary accident,
we have time to chase our wonders away
and to postpone the answers,
we have time to break a dream to pieces and then
to reinvent it,
we have time to make friends, to lose friends,
we have time to receive lessons and forget them afterwards,
we have time to receive gifts and not to understand them.
We have time for them all.
There is no time for just a bit of tenderness.
When we are aware about to do this we die.
I’ve learned that you cannot make someone love you;
All you can do is to be a loved person.
the rest … depends on the others.
I’ve learned that as much as I care
others might not care.
I’ve learned that it takes years to earn trust
and just a few seconds to lose it.
I’ve learned that it does not matter WHAT you have in your life
but WHO you have.
I’ve learned that your charm is useful for about 15 minutes
Afterwards, you should better know something.
I’ve learned that no matter how you cut it,
everything has two sides!
I’ve learned that you should separate from your loved ones with warm words
It might be the last time you see them!
I’ve learned that you can still continue for a long time after saying you cannot continue anymore
I’ve learned that heroes are those who do what they have to do,
when they have to do it,
regardless the consequences
I’ve learned that there are people who love
But do not know how to show it !
I’ve learned that when I am upset I have the RIGHT to be upset
But not the right to be bad!
I’ve learned that real friendship continues to exist despite the distance
And this is true also for REAL LOVE !!!
I’ve learned that if someone does not love you like you want them to
It does not mean that they do not love you with all their heart.
I’ve learned that no matter how good of a friend someone is for you
that person will hurt you every now and then
and that you have to forgive him.
I’ve learned that it is not enough to be forgiven by others
Sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself.
I’ve learned that no matter how much you suffer,
The world will not stop for your pain.
I’ve learned that the past and the circumstances might have an influence on your personality
But that YOU are responsible for what you become !!!
I’ve learned that if two people have an argument it does not mean that they do not love each other
I’ve learned that sometimes you have to put on the first place the person, not the facts
I’ve learned that two people can look at the same thing
and can see something totally different
I’ve learned that regardless the consequences
those WHO ARE HONEST with themselves go further in life.
I’ve learned that life can be changed in a few hours
by people who do not even know you.
I’ve learned that even when you think there is nothing more you can give
when a friend calls you, you will find the strength to help him.
I’ve learned that writing just like talking can ease the pains of the soul !
I’ve learned that those whom you love the most
are taken away from you too soon …
I’ve learned that it is too difficult to realise where to draw the line between being friendly, not hurting people and supporting your oppinions.
I’ve learned to love
to be loved.
”
”
Octavian Paler
“
what is the expression which the age demands? the age demands no expression whatever. we have seen photographs of bereaved asian mothers. we are not interested in the agony of your fumbled organs. there is nothing you can show on your face that can match the horror of this time. do not even try. you will only hold yourself up to the scorn of those who have felt things deeply. we have seen newsreels of humans in the extremities of pain and dislocation.
you are playing to people who have experienced a catastrophe. this should make you very quiet. speak the words, convey the data, step aside. everyone knows you are in pain. you cannot tell the audience everything you know about love in every line of love you speak. step aside and they will know what you know because you know it already. you have nothing to teach them. you are not more beautiful than they are. you are not wiser.
do not shout at them. do not force a dry entry. that is bad sex. if you show the lines of your genitals, then deliver what you promise. and remember that people do not really want an acrobat in bed. what is our need? to be close to the natural man, to be close to the natural woman. do not pretend that you are a beloved singer with a vast loyal audience which has followed the ups and downs of your life to this very moment. the bombs, flame-throwers, and all the shit have destroyed more than just the trees and villages. they have also destroyed the stage. did you think that your profession would escape the general destruction? there is no more stage. there are no more footlights. you are among the people. then be modest. speak the words, convey the data, step aside. be by yourself. be in your own room. do not put yourself on.
do not act out words. never act out words. never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you talk about death. do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love. if you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself. if ambition and the hunger for applause have driven you to speak about love you should learn how to do it without disgracing yourself or the material.
this is an interior landscape. it is inside. it is private. respect the privacy of the material. these pieces were written in silence. the courage of the play is to speak them. the discipline of the play is not to violate them. let the audience feel your love of privacy even though there is no privacy. be good whores. the poem is not a slogan. it cannot advertise you. it cannot promote your reputation for sensitivity. you are students of discipline. do not act out the words. the words die when you act them out, they wither, and we are left with nothing but your ambition.
the poem is nothing but information. it is the constitution of the inner country. if you declaim it and blow it up with noble intentions then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. you are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest kind of appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. think of the words as science, not as art. they are a report. you are speaking before a meeting of the explorers’ club of the national geographic society. these people know all the risks of mountain climbing. they honour you by taking this for granted. if you rub their faces in it that is an insult to their hospitality. do not work the audience for gasps ans sighs. if you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event but from theirs. it will be in the statistics and not the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. it will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence.
avoid the flourish. do not be afraid to be weak. do not be ashamed to be tired. you look good when you’re tired. you look like you could go on forever. now come into my arms. you are the image of my beauty.
”
”
Leonard Cohen (Death of a Lady’s Man)
best word i’ve ever written
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