Henry James (15 April 1843 – 28 February 1916)
There it is round you. Don’t pass it by — the immediate, the real, the only, the yours, the novelist’s that it waits for. Take hold of it and keep hold, and let it pull you where it will.
Month: March 2019
Stendhal On Love
Stendhal (Marie-Henri Beyle) (January 23, 1783 – March 23, 1842)
Indeed, half — the most beautiful half — of life is hidden from one who has not loved passionately.
Adyashanti On The Now
Adyashanti (October 26, 1962 -)
What you are is never born, never lives, and never dies. Birth-life-death happens within what you are, in the same way that a dream at night arises, has a span of time, and disappears within what you are . . . The nature of this that we are is to create. It creates an after-death experience. It creates Bardo realms. It creates beings to come greet you. It creates gods. It creates lights that beckon you. It creates tunnels, the whole thing. It’s just like in life . . . You can dream up a hundred past lives. And then the realization dawns: “Wait a minute, it’s all being constructed right now. There’s only now.
Virginia Woolf On Writing
Virginia Woolf (January 25, 1882 – March 28, 1941)
So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. But to sacrifice a hair of the head of your vision, a shade of its colour, in deference to some Headmaster with a silver pot in his hand or to some professor with a measuring-rod up his sleeve, is the most abject treachery.
Blima Marcus On Vaccines
Blima MarcusWe live in close quarters with extended family. So we should consider ourselves especially obligated to prevent harm to our fellow community members.
George Orwell On Foreigners
George Orwell (25 June 1903 – 21 January 1950)
If he were allowed contact with foreigners, he would discover that they are creatures similar to himself, and that most of what he had been told about them is lies.
May Sarton On Solitude
May Sarton (May 3, 1912 – July 16, 1995)
I am alone here for the first time in weeks to take up my “real” life again at last. That is what is strange — that friends, even passionate love, are not my real life, unless there is time alone to explore and to discover what is happening or has happened.
