It’s life that matters, nothing but life — the process of discovering, the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all.
Virginia Woolf, Night And Day. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
She felt prisoned. Through the bars of the prison, through the sleep haze that deflected them, blunt arrows bruised her; of love, then of hate. She fell back lifeless.
Virginia Woolf,Between The Acts. (via violentwavesofemotion)
That’s how people live, by telling stories. What’s the first thing a kid says when he learns how to talk? “Tell me a story.” That’s how we understand who we are, where we come from. Stories are everything.
Jeffrey Eugenides (via troubled)
If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape.
Ray Bradbury (via troubled)
I’ll bet there’ll come a time when you realize you’re always gonna have about as much success as you need, and that’s fine.
— David Foster Wallace, Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself
Words rose above the intolerably laden, dumb oxen plodding through the mud. Words without meaning, wonderful words.
Virginia Woolf, Between The Acts. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
She had some queer power of fiddling on one’s nerves, turning one’s nerves to fiddle-strings, yes.
Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
As usual she seemed to reserve something which she did not say, and he was conscious that they disagreed, and, without saying it aloud, were arguing against each other. But she was too hurried and pre-occupied to talk.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
We are the people of the book. We love our books. We fill our houses with books. We treasure books we inherit from our parents, and we cherish the idea of passing those books on to our children. Indeed, how many of us started reading with a beloved book that belonged to one of our parents? We force worthy books on our friends, and we insist that they read them. We even feel a weird kinship for the people we see on buses or airplanes reading our books, the books that we claim. If anyone tries to take away our books—some oppressive government, some censor gone off the rails—we would defend them with everything that we have. We know our tribespeople when we visit their homes because every wall is lined with books. There are teetering piles of books beside the bed and on the floor; there are masses of swollen paperbacks in the bathroom. Our books are us. They are our outboard memory banks and they contain the moral, intellectual, and imaginative influences that make us the people we are today.
Cory Doctorow (via slekes)