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The Waves
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The Drawing of th...
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Cormac McCarthy
“The desert wind would salt their ruins and there would be nothing, nor ghost nor scribe, to tell to any pilgrim in his passing how it was that people had lived in this place and in this place died.”
Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West

Cormac McCarthy
“Finally found a herd of eight animals and we killed them and come in. They’re gone. Ever one of them that God ever made is gone as if they’d never been at all.”
Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West

Cormac McCarthy
“The old hunter pulled his blanket about him. I wonder if there’s other worlds like this, he said. Or if this is the only one.”
Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West

Joan Didion
“I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense,” C. S. Lewis wrote after the death of his wife. “It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual. Thought after thought, feeling after feeling, action after action, had H. for their object. Now their target is gone. I keep on through habit fitting an arrow to the string, then I remember and have to lay the bow down. So many roads lead thought to H. I set out on one of them. But now there’s an impassable frontierpost across it. So many roads once; now so many cul de sacs.”
Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

John Fowles
“By this sinister elision, this slipping from true remorse, the belief that the suffering we have precipitated ought to ennoble us, or at least make us less ignoble from then on, to disguised self-forgiveness, the belief that suffering in some way ennobles life, so that the precipitation of pain comes, by such a cockeyed algebra, to equal the ennoblement, or at any rate the enrichment, of life, by this characteristically twentieth-century retreat from content into form, from meaning into appearance, from ethics into aesthetics, from aqua into unda, I dulled the pain of that accusing death; and hardened myself to say nothing of it at Bourani.”
John Fowles, The Magus

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