a book is made from a tree. it is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called ‘leaves’) imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. one glance at it and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. writing is perhaps the greatest of human...
she was the most beautiful woman i’d ever known. it was the beauty of a desert at dawn: a loveliness that filled my eyes, and crushed me into silent, unbreathing awe. —shantaram
you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. and whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. —max ehrmann
one should always be drunk. that’s the great thing; the only question. not to feel the horrible burden of time weighing on your shoulders and bowing you to the earth, you should be drunk without respite. drunk with what? with wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please. but get drunk. and if sometimes you should happen to awake, on the stairs of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch,...
the opposite of loneliness...