He had loved too much, demanded too much, and he wore it all out.
Ernest Hemingway, The Complete Short Stories (via introspectivepoet)
But perhaps the great work of art has less importance in itself than in the ordeal it demands of a man and the opportunity it provides him of overcoming his phantoms and approaching a little closer to his naked reality.
Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus (via intellectual-poaching)
…my love feeds on your love, beloved…
Pablo Neruda (via introspectivepoet)
Love is vivid. I never wanted the pale version. Love is full strength. I never wanted the diluted version. I never shied away from love’s hugeness but I had no idea that love could be as reliable as the sun. The daily rising of love.
Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? (via bookmania)
But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (via introspectivepoet)
After each novel, I have the impression that I have cleared it all away… But I know I’ll come back over and over again to tiny details, little things that are part of what I am. In the end, we are all determined by the place and the time in which we were born.
Patrick Modiano, 2014 Nobel Prize for Literature winner, in an interview with France Today. (via zodml)
I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.
Mary Oliver (via introspectivepoet)