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The Buried Giant
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by Kazuo Ishiguro (Goodreads Author)
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The Count of Mont...
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The Master and Ma...
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Mercè Rodoreda
“Before the rain began to fall, more thunder sounded, as if they sky were rent and the lightning had come to cauterize the heavenly wounds.”
Mercè Rodoreda, Death in Spring

Daisy Alpert Florin
“First, I ask myself if it's something I can fix. And if it's not, I ask myself if it's something I can live with.'
'And what if it isn't something you can live with?'
'I go back and ask myself the first question again”
Daisy Alpert Florin, My Last Innocent Year

Clarice Lispector
“She remembered it was August and they say August brings bad luck. But September would arrive one day like an exit. And September was for some reason a lighter and more transparent month.”
Clarice Lispector, The Complete Stories

Jarod K. Anderson
“There are two paths to magic: Imagination and paying attention. Imagination is the fiction we love, the truths built of falsehoods, glowing dust on the water’s surface. Paying attention is about intentional noticing, participating in making meaning to lend new weight to our world. An acorn. The geometry of a beehive. The complexity of whale song. The perfect slowness of a heron.”
Jarod K. Anderson, Something in the Woods Loves You

Ray Bradbury
“For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ's birth, there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring, or revivifying summer. For these beings, fall is the ever normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles—breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them.”
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

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