“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape—the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.”—Andrew Wyeth (via apoetreflects)
Myths animate our world. And now, since we have willfully discarded myths as a result of widespread cynicism and overpriced rationality born of technological ‘progress’, our world is dead to us. Which is why it is so easy (we being morally flexible calculating machines) to turn a blind eye and actively participate in the minute-by-minute destruction of this planet.
The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all. It was a saying about noble…
“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them. Do not complain. Make every effort to change things you do not like. If you cannot make a change, change the way you have been thinking.”—Maya Angelou, from Letter To My Daughter (via violentwavesofemotion)
“Fundamentally, he had not stopped being embarrassed with his life, with this voluminous, useless gift, and he had carried it in his arms without knowing what to do with it or where to set it down.”—Jean-Paul Sartre, The Childhood of a Leader (via intellectual-poaching)
To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishing boat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now. Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.
I came across this beautiful passage from Dylan Thomas’ ‘Under Milk Wood’ (1954) while browsing through The Hermitage.
“This is one more piece of advice I have for you: don’t get impatient. Even if things are so tangled up you can’t do anything, don’t get desperate or blow a fuse and start yanking on one particular thread before it’s ready to come undone. You have to figure it’s going to be a long process and that you’ll work on things slowly, one at a time.”—Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via mamanell)