I want to tear myself from this place, from this reality, rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far, over the hills. But I am here, my legs blocks of concrete, my lungs empty of air, my throat burning. There will be no floating away.
- Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
I’m the kind of person who likes to be by himself. To put a finer point on it, I’m the type of person who doesn’t find it painful to be alone. I find spending an hour or two every day running alone, not speaking to anyone, as well as four or five hours alone at my desk, to be neither difficult nor boring. I’ve had this tendency ever since I was young, when, given a choice, I much preferred reading books on my own or concentrating on listening to music over being with someone else. I could always think of things to do by myself.
- Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
- Robert Frost
It was the faintest of smiles, yet he felt the tides start to shift all over the world.
- Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
Boston, where you never wanted to live, where you feel you’ve been exiled to, becomes a serious problem. You have trouble adjusting to it full-time; to its trains that stop running at midnight, to the glumness of its inhabitants, to its startling lack of Sichuan food.
- Junot Díaz, This Is How You Lose Her
Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
- John Keats (via dailydoseofstuf
what you see is what you see:
madhouses are rarely
that we still walk about and
scratch ourselves and light
is more than a miracle
than bathing beauties
than roses and the moth.
to sit in a room
and drink a can of beer
and roll a cigarette
while listening to Brahms
on a small radio
is to have come back
from a dozen wars
listening to the sound
of the refrigerator
as bathing beauties rot
and the oranges and apples
- Charles Bukowski, “a horse with greenblue eyes” (via shesanargonaut