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“Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were
behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.
For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter
that only by wintering through it will your heart survive.
(Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter
dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.
Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,
daß, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.)”
―
behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.
For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter
that only by wintering through it will your heart survive.
(Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter
dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.
Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,
daß, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.)”
―
“Luminous, somehow, like the lantern on it. It doesn’t whisper verses or stories around his tongue and into his head, thankfully, but it tastes older than stories. It tastes like myth.”
― The Starless Sea
― The Starless Sea
“The parliament of owls told their decision to the stars and the stars agreed. The moon did not, but on this night she was dark and could not offer her opinion”
― The Starless Sea
― The Starless Sea
“Once there was a woman who sculpted stories.
She sculpted them from all manner of things. At first she worked with snow or smoke or clouds, because their tales were temporary, fleeting. Gone in moments, visible and readable only to those who happened to be present in the time between carving and disintegrating, but the sculptor preferred this. It left no time to fuss over details or imperfections. The stories did not remain to be questioned and criticized and second-guessed, by herself or by others. They were, and then they were not. Many were never read before they ceased to exist, but the story sculptor remembered them.
Passionate love stories that were manipulated into the vacancies between raindrops and vanished with the end of the storm.
Tragedies intricately poured from bottles of wine and sipped thoughtfully with melancholy and fine cheeses.
Fairy tales shaped from sand and seashells on shorelines slowly swept away by softly lapping waves.”
― The Starless Sea
She sculpted them from all manner of things. At first she worked with snow or smoke or clouds, because their tales were temporary, fleeting. Gone in moments, visible and readable only to those who happened to be present in the time between carving and disintegrating, but the sculptor preferred this. It left no time to fuss over details or imperfections. The stories did not remain to be questioned and criticized and second-guessed, by herself or by others. They were, and then they were not. Many were never read before they ceased to exist, but the story sculptor remembered them.
Passionate love stories that were manipulated into the vacancies between raindrops and vanished with the end of the storm.
Tragedies intricately poured from bottles of wine and sipped thoughtfully with melancholy and fine cheeses.
Fairy tales shaped from sand and seashells on shorelines slowly swept away by softly lapping waves.”
― The Starless Sea
“There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner.”
― Once Upon a River
― Once Upon a River
Leah’s 2025 Year in Books
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