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I'm Glad My Mom Died
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The Safekeep
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Arcadia
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  (page 88 of 724)
Jun 21, 2024 03:43PM

 
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Stephen Fry
“The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane. Each sentence we produce, whether we know it or not, is a mongrel mouthful of Chaucerian, Shakespearean, Miltonic, Johnsonian, Dickensian and American. Military, naval, legal, corporate, criminal, jazz, rap and ghetto discourses are mingled at every turn. The French language, like Paris, has attempted, through its Academy, to retain its purity, to fight the advancing tides of Franglais and international prefabrication. English, by comparison, is a shameless whore.”
Stephen Fry, The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within

Patti Smith
“Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. It leads to each other. We become ourselves.”
Patti Smith, Just Kids

“Transpiro... Me toco. Siento que mis manos ya no son mis manos... Mi piel ya no es mi piel... Me encuentro en un estado rarísimo.. como si rozara la realidad, pero no pudiendo permanecer dentro de ella. Como si mi persona no estuviese allí, en ese lugar.”
Alina Diaconú, Avatar

Mario Benedetti
“Tengo la horrible sensación de que pasa el tiempo y no hago nada y nada acontece, y nada me conmueve hasta la raíz”
Mario Benedetti, La tregua

Virginia Woolf
“But what might be written in the book which had rounded its edges off in his pocket, she did not know. What he thought they none of them knew. But he was absorbed in it, so that when he looked up, as he did now for an instant, it was not to see anything; it was to pin down some thought more exactly. That done, his mind flew back again and he plunged into his reading. He read, she thought, as if he were guiding something, or wheedling a large flock of sheep, or pushing his way up and up a single narrow path; and sometimes he went fast and straight, and broke his way through the bramble, and sometimes it seemed a branch struck at him, a bramble blinded him, but he was not going to let himself be beaten by that; on he went, tossing over page after page.”
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

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