literature-quotes

Geography and mileage mean nothing. Separate is a single word that covers all distances that aren't together.

Excessive literary production is a social offense.

The road to heaven isn__ much of a road,_ he was saying. __t__ more like a dusty trail, roughly cut out through the underbrush. Most people don__ even notice it. It doesn__ look like a path at all, so they walk right by. Others see it, but don__ go down it because it__ ugly. Dirty. Difficult. Overgrown. If they took the road to heaven, their progress would be slow, maybe immeasurable. They__ have to give up a lot because the path is narrow.

But you raised a ruckus about and threatened to perform a Julius Caesarian on anybody on anybody who calls April the cruelest month- I was Damn born out of the loins of my father in the spring of April, you claimed. Surgeon, you stood up for the month of buds and bitches like a true Kuon Kunos

Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places.

Language is no barrier for a lover of words.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earthA youth to fortune and to fame unknown.Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melancholy marked him for her own.

The world of literature is a sacred mirror that shows not the reality around us but the dreams and fears that reality stimulates: It__ not where we live, but life itself.

There it was, happiness in a backward glance: happiness and the certainty of hope.

Joy, it is, which I've never known before, only pleasure or excitement. Joy is a different thing, because its focus exists outside the self-delight in something external, not satisfaction of some inner craving.

I'm accustomed to thinking of literature as a search for knowledge; in order to move onto existential terrain I need to consider it in relation to anthropology, ethnology, and mythology.

so heavy with sorrow , so full of pain

People recover differently. Some change cities, some fall in love and some begin writing.

Let the mind contemplate, let the pen scribble, the oeuvre would be eccentric, peculiar to a reader's eye.

Thoughts are meant to be words and words are meant to be written and what is written becomes a figment of the literature

this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings....the merry dance of death and trade goes on

Great literary works are not measured by the number of words, but by the impact they create.

Occasionally a car swooshed by in the rain and its headlights would swing round momentarily and illuminate the room-the pool table, snowshoes on the wall and the rowing machine, the armchair in which Henry sat, motionless, a glass in his hand and the cigarette burning low between his fingers. For a moment his face, pale and watchful as a ghost's, would be caught in the headlights and then, very gradually, it would slide back into the dark.