This is one of the great and wondrous characteristics of beautiful books: that for the author they may be called Conclusions, but for the reader, Provocations. We can feel that our wisdom begins where the author’s ends, and we want him to give us answers when all he can do is give us desires. He awakens these desires in us only when he gets us to contemplate the supreme beauty which he cannot reach except through the utmost efforts of his art. But by a strange and, it must be said, providential law of spiritual optics (a law which signifies, perhaps, that we cannot receive the truth from anyone else, that we must create it ourselves), the end of a book’s wisdom appears to us as merely the start of our own, so that at the moment when the book has told us everything it can, it gives rise to the feeling that it has told us nothing.
― Marcel Proust, “On Reading” (via deconstructionandcriticism)
5 notes
I start my mornings convincing myself to open the windows, and let the new air replace the old. To let myself fold the sheets and leave behind all the doubts from yesterday under a well made bed. A freshly brewed cup of coffee filling the spaces in between scents of who I am behind closed doors. This is what I leave behind. This is what I go home to.
― Keen Malasarte, My mother tells me to make my bed in order to be made as a person, and I think she’s doing me a favor.  (via creatingaquietmind)

(Source: acupofkeen)

2,292 notes
It’s all right if we keep forgetting the way home.
It’s all right if we don’t remember when we were born.
It’s all right if we write the same poem over and over.
― Robert Bly, from Talking Into The Ear Of A Donkey (via illusionsvk)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)

1,665 notes