literature

Earth is the source of light.

Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.

In greatness, life and death merge.

One hand I extend into myself, the other toward others.

He awaits himself while walking, out of the icy circle to escape.

Long ago we conquered our passions looking at ourselves in the mirror of eternity.

There was no sense to life, to the structure of things. D.H. Lawrence had known that. You needed love, but not the kind of love most people used and were used up by. Old D.H. had known something. His buddy Huxley was just an intellectual fidget, but what a marvelous one. Better than G.B. Shaw with that hard keel of a mind always scraping bottom, his labored wit finally only a task, a burden on himself, preventing him from really feeling anything, his brilliant speech finally a bore, scraping the mind and the sensibilities. It was good to read them all though. It made you realize that thoughts and words could be fascinating, if finally useless.

Love is almost never simple.

Looking back on my life, I sigh. The caprice of youth goes with the wind, I__e no regrets.

Will the day tell its secret Before it disappears, Becomes timeless night.

I was beginning to understand something I couldn't articulate. It was a jazzy feeling in my chest, a fluttering, a kind of buzzing in my brain. Warmth. Life. The circulation of blood. Sanguinity. I don't know. I understood the enormous risk of telling the truth, how the telling could result in every level of hell reigning down on you, your skin scorched to the bone and then bone to ash and then nothing but a lingering odour of shame and decomposition, but now I was also beginning to understand the new and alien feeling of taking the risk and having the person on the other end of the telling, the listener, say: Bad shit at home? You guys are running away? Yeah, I said. I understand, said, Noehmi.

To dream on occasion is not dreaming, To love on occasion is not love.

Mathematics doesn__ care about those beyond the numbers.

He will understand when it is too late that it is easier to love.

There are no clear borders, Only merging invisible to the sight.

Without nothing, everything would be nothing.

You are hurrying to the sweet place, To the nonsense chasing your spirit And in the nonsense you look for answers.

In the end, the world returns to a grain.