The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity… and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.
I’ll affect you slowly
as if you were having a picnic in a dream.
There will be no ants.
It won’t rain.
“one day you may hear it sing
of wars and people, travels, troubles,
the ways of this world. For those who know
nothing, image is consolation.”
- Andrzej Sosnowski
There are years that ask questions and years that answer.
If you aren’t amazed most of the time you aren’t paying attention.
The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.
I admire anybody who has the guts to write anything at all.
When you start to really know someone, all their physical characteristics start to disappear. You begin to dwell in his energy, recognize the scent of their skin. You see only the essence of the person, not the shell. That’s why you can’t fall in love with beauty. You can lust after it, be infatuated by it, want to own it. You can love it with your eyes and body but not your heart. And that’s why, when you really connect with a person’s inner self, any physical imperfections disappear, become irrelevant.
Remember happiness doesn’t depend on who you are or what you have, it depends solely on what you think.
Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.
The problem of art is to discipline emotion without losing it.
“Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for - in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it.”
- Ellen Goodman
Language is the only homeland.
The book is the shadow of something inside the mind of the writer and that the author cannot clearly grasp: that shadow gains reality and the rest disappears. The work becomes real and the idea is left as a vestige of the work, progressively more unreal. When reading Yeats’ earlier poems - only good after twenty years, after many corrections and changes - I think that he initially wrote them in order to reach their current form: they are poems that needed the author’s entire life to reach their perfect form. Perhaps, in the mind of the poets, there are no “bad” poems; perhaps in each bad poem there is a good poem, the one that moved the author to write it. Yeats began writing his poems because he confusedly saw them as they are now, in their current form after the final corrections; perhaps bad poems are merely unfinished poems.