Girish Gowda

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Notes of a Crocodile
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Narziss and Goldmund
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  (page 28 of 301)
Jan 02, 2026 02:14PM

 
The Daily Stoic: ...
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Margaret Atwood
“Virginia Woolf said that writing a novel is like walking through a dark room, holding a lantern which lights up what is already in the room anyway.”
Margaret Atwood, Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing

Margaret Atwood
“While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me--drawing on my skin--not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings.

But underneath that is another feeling, a feeling of being wide-eyed awake and watchful. It's like being wakened suddenly in the middle of the night, by a hand over your face, and you sit up with your heart going fast, and no one is there. And underneath that is another feeling still, a feeling like being torn open; not like a body of flesh, it is not painful as such, but like a peach; and not even torn open, but ripe and splitting open of its own accord.

And inside the peach there's a stone.”
Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace

Richard Yates
“You're painfully alive in a drugged and dying culture.”
Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road

David Foster Wallace
“If you can think of times in your life that you've treated people with extraordinary decency and love, with pure uninterested concern, just because they were valuable as human beings. The ability to do that with ourselves. To treat ourselves the way we would treat a really good, precious friend. Or a tiny child of ours that we absolutely loved more than life itself. And I think it's probably possible to achieve that. I think part of the job we're here for is to learn how to do it. I know that sounds a little pious.”
David Foster Wallace

Denis Johnson
“Now the colonel seemed to grieve for his President again, because he said, “This world spits out a beautiful man like he was poison.”
Denis Johnson, Tree of Smoke

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