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“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.”
― Mrs. Dalloway
― Mrs. Dalloway
“But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.”
―
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.”
―
“Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.”
― Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Three Stories
― Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Three Stories
“I have loved to the point of madness; that which is called madness, that which to me, is the only sensible way to love.”
―
―
“February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out. ”
―
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out. ”
―
Barbora’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Barbora’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
1,229 books
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198 friends
3,337 books
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21 friends
3,006 books
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123 friends
3,913 books
|
596 friends
2,206 books
|
81 friends
385 books
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65 friends
1,511 books
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657 friends
193 books
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27 friends
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