Madhuri

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David Foster Wallace
“Lonely people tend, rather, to be lonely because they decline to bear the psychic costs of being around other humans. They are allergic to people. People affect them too strongly.”
David Foster Wallace, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments

John  Green
“Harry Potter isn’t real? Oh no! Wait, wait, what do you mean by real? Is this video blog real? Am I real if you can see me and hear me, but only through the internet? Are you real if I can read your comment but I don’t know who you are or what your name is or where you’re from or what you look like or how old you are? I know all of those things about Harry Potter. Maybe Harry Potter’s real and you’re not.”
John Green

John Fowles
“Liking other people is an illusion we have to cherish in ourselves if we are to live in society.”
John Fowles, The Magus

David Foster Wallace
“Good fiction’s job is to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.”
David Foster Wallace

Mervyn Peake
“There is a love that equals in its power the love of man for woman and reaches inwards as deeply. It is the love of a man or a woman for their world. For the world of their center where their lives burn genuinely and with a free flame.

The love of the diver for his world of wavering light. His world of pearls and tendrils and his breath at his breast. Born as a plunger into the deeps he is at one with every swarm of lime-green fish, with every colored sponge. As he holds himself to the ocean's faery floor, one hand clasped to a bedded whale's rib, he is complete and infinite. Pulse, power and universe sway in his body. He is in love.

The love of the painter standing alone and staring, staring at the great colored surface he is making. Standing with him in the room the rearing canvas stares back with tentative shapes halted in their growth, moving in a new rhythm from floor to ceiling. The twisted tubes, the fresh paint squeezed and smeared across the dry on his palette. The dust beneath the easel. The paint has edged along the brushes' handles. The white light in a northern sky is silent. The window gapes as he inhales his world. His world: a rented room, and turpentine. He moves towards his half-born. He is in Love.

The rich soil crumbles through the yeoman's fingers. As the pearl diver murmurs, 'I am home' as he moves dimly in strange water-lights, and as the painter mutters, 'I am me' on his lone raft of floorboards, so the slow landsman on his acre'd marl - says with dark Fuchsia on her twisting staircase, 'I am home.”
Mervyn Peake, Titus Groan

year in books
Catherine
547 books | 217 friends

Lois
706 books | 125 friends

Mera Li...
703 books | 135 friends

Sivan B...
146 books | 8 friends

Delia Li
39 books | 178 friends

Lucas Do
38 books | 215 friends

Gabriel...
7 books | 99 friends

Maggie ...
1 book | 230 friends

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