Why have I forgotten so many things that must have been, one would have thought, more memorable than what I do remember? Why remember the hum of bees in the garden going down to the beach […]
Virginia Woolf, A Sketch of the Past (via wavingtovirginia)
What is art? Like a declaration of love: the consciousness of our dependence on each other. A confession. An unconscious act that none the less reflects the true meaning of life—love and sacrifice.
Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time (via heartvoyage)
Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisioned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape?…If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can
Andrew Lang, 1939 (via faithtrustanddragons)
A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.
Vincent van Gogh (via feuille-d-automne)