October 19th 9:38 pm
“ Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.
It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ”
— Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
October 15th 3:25 pm
“ I have no sense of self. I have no personality, no brilliant color. I have nothing to offer. That’s always been my problem. I feel like an empty vessel. I have a shape, I guess, as a container, but there’s nothing inside.”…”Let’s say you are an empty vessel. So what? What’s wrong with that?” … “You’re still a wonderful, attractive vessel. And really, does anybody know who they are? So why not be a completely beautiful vessel? The kind people feel good about, the kind people want to entrust with precious belongings. ”
— Haruki Murakami - Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (via murakamistuff)
October 15th 3:22 pm
Are more bare
Dims the hills.
Comes and goes
And in the moonlight
I wait for winter.
Is like moonlight
In one thing:
That it hides nothing.
— Yvor Winters, “October,” American Poetry: The Twentieth Century, Volume Two (The Library of America, 2000)
(Source: apoetreflects, via chardonette)
October 5th 10:53 pm
“ But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond. ”
— Ernest Hemingway