The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real.. For a moment at least.. That long magic moment before we wake. Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true? We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La. They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.
dreams magic moment fantasy language real reality true earth heaven songs gold sweet strong ancient wings deep night end day child summer find south alive forever die taste colors read written hear meat red love forests stones feast wake
One must maintain a little bittle of summer, even in the middle of winter.
inspiration summer winter
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
life movies renewal conviction growing trees beginning grow summer things great sunshine
Summer night--even the starsare whispering to each other.
poetry summer
They spent a summer talking beneath the redwoods. There was a curiosity to the way they knew. She would take his hips in her hands and turn him to the left, so the sun would not be in his eyes. He would take her hips in his hands and turn her to the right, so the sun would not be in her eyes. It is a dance. A very careful way they care.
poetry dance art curiosity talking sun care eyes summer hands left
Last-Minute Message For a Time CapsuleI have to tell you this, whoever you are: that on one summer morning here, the oceanpounded in on tumbledown breakers,a south wind, bustling along the shore, whipped the froth into little rainbows, and a reckless gull swept down the beachas if to fly were everything it needed.I thought of your hovering saucers, looking for clues, and I wanted to write this down, so it wouldn't be lost forever - -that once upon a time we hadmeadows here, and astonishing things, swans and frogs and luna mothsand blue skies that could stagger your heart. We could have had them still, and welcomed you to earth, butwe also had the righteous oneswho worshipped the True Faith, and Holy War. When you go home to your shining galaxy, say that what you learnedfrom this dead and barren place isto beware the righteous ones.
faith time home war true thought earth heart wind lost write morning summer south believers dead things place forever fly galaxy righteous message blue aliens holy atheism frogs
Come with me,' Mom says. To the library. Books and summertimego together.
mom library summer books
In the shop window you have promptly identified the cover with the title you were looking for. Following this visual trail, you have forced your way through the shop past the thick barricade of Books You Haven't Read, which were frowning at you from the tables and shelves, trying to cow you. But you know you must never allow yourself to be awed, that among them there extend for acres and acres the Books You Needn't Read, the Books Made For Purposes Other Than Reading, Books Read Even Before You Open Them Since They Belong To The Category Of Books Read Before Being Written. And thus you pass the outer girdle of ramparts, but then you are attacked by the infantry of the Books That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly Also Read But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered. With a rapid maneuver you bypass them and move into the phalanxes of the Books You Mean To Read But There Are Others You Must Read First, the Books Too Expensive Now And You'll Wait Till They're Remaindered, the Books ditto When They Come Out In Paperback, Books You Can Borrow From Somebody, Books That Everybody's Read So It's As If You Had Read Them, Too. Eluding these assaults, you come up beneath the towers of the fortress, where other troops are holding out: the Books You've Been Planning Top Read For Ages, the Books You've Been Hunting For Years Without Success, the Books Dealing With Something You're Working On At The Moment, the Books You Want To Own So They'll Be Handy Just In Case, the Books You Could Put Aside Maybe To Read This Summer, the Books You Need To Go With Other Books On Your Shelves, the Books That Fill You With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easily Justified, Now you have been able to reduce the countless embattled troops to an array that is, to be sure, very large but still calculable in a finite number; but this relative relief is then undermined by the ambush of the Books Read Long Ago Which It's Now Time To Reread and the Books You've Always Pretended To Have Read And Now It's Time To Sit Down And Really Read Them.
reading life time success days moment past curiosity summer open wait window read written working made planning relief books shelves hunting shop troops
The library in summer is the most wonderful thing because there you get books on any subject and read them each for only as long as they hold your interest, abandoning any that don't, halfway or a quarter of the way through if you like, and store up all that knowledge in the happy corners of your mind for your own self and not to show off how much you know or spit it back at your teacher on a test paper.
reading mind libraries happy knowledge wonderful library summer interest teacher read paper books thing halfway
The House Was Quiet and the World Was CalmThe house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet and the world was calm. The words were spoken as if there was no book, Except that the reader leaned above the page, Wanted to lean, wanted much to be The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom The summer night is like a perfection of thought. The house was quiet because it had to be. The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind: The access of perfection to the page. And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world, In which there is no other meaning, itself Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
reading poetry silence mind truth meaning true thought world book perfection words night conscious quiet summer calm part reader house books
Yes! The books - the generous friends who met me without suspicion - the merciful masters who never used me ill! The only years of my life that I can look back on with something like pride.. Early and late, through the long winter nights and the quiet summer days, I drank at the fountain of knowledge, and never wearied of the draught.
reading life days pride friends knowledge quiet summer suspicion winter early generous fountain books
The summer passed quietly. I busied myself as best I could, reading a good deal.
reading good summer books
I also did some jail time a few years ago. Spent a whole summer in jail reading books. I pumped a ton of new knowledge and new thinking into myself.
reading time education knowledge jail summer thinking books
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end.
life fantasy reality gold sweet end summer fantasy-fiction meat red books
A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.
poetry philosophy literature life wisdom smile poets quotes summer window poetry-quotes dejan-stojanovic literature-quotes the-sun-watches-the-sun forgotten books
My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn!At a turn in the path a foul carcassOn a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant wayIts belly, swollen with gases.
death fair sweet poison woman summer air burning path bed love legs
Summertime is always the best of what might be.
death summer seasons mexico
Summer came. For the book thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews. When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, their spirits came toward me, into my arms, and we climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity's certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after minute. Shower after shower.
force door death color sky holocaust book jews summer bodies rose desperation souls spirits arms thief
Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul, that soft summer morninground a turning in the path, the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones, its legs in the air like a woman in needburning its wedding poisonslike a fountain with its rhythmic sobs,I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound, but I touch my body in vain to find the wound.I am the vampire of my own heart, one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughterwho can no longer smile. Am I dead?I must be dead.
poetry sound wedding vampires death soul body heart smile murder woman remember vain vampire summer eternal find air dead wound touch fountain hear path sight great bed horror stones legs
You are afraid to die?'Yes, everyone is.'But to die as lovers may - to die together, so that they may live together. Girls are caterpillars when they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes; but in the meantime there are grubs and larvae, don't you see - each with their peculiar propensities, necessities and structures.
vampires death live world girls butterflies lovers summer die afraid
Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said,'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich--yes, richer than a king--And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everythingTo make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.
poetry clean grace people death home light human thought night summer bread suicide place calm head meat crown richard
It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer.
feelings summer freedom
For historical currents do not irresistibly propel themselves and everyone in their path. No matter what their broader structural or ideological roots, they both carry along and are carried along by people, who are not merely passengers of history, but pilots as well.
history free-will drive sociology summer 1960s freedom
My old grandmother always used to say, Summer friends will meltaway like summer snows, but winter friends are friends forever.
friendship summer winter george-r-r-martin a-song-of-ice-and-fire
There is something deep within us that sobs at endings. Why, God, does everything have to end? Why does all nature grow old? Why do spring and summer have to go?
nature summer god
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