I often carry things to read so that I will not have to look at the people.
― Charles Bukowski
Because he will grip you by the shoulders and wrench you around and he will bring his bristly mouth to yours and blow
down your throat
you are so full
― Augusten Burroughs, You Better Not Cry
All of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea — whether it is to sail or to watch it — we are going back from whence we came.
― John F. Kennedy
I want to be like water. I want to slip through fingers, but hold up a ship.
― Michelle Williams
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
― Anaïs Nin
Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.
― Stephen King, Different Seasons: Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption
She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oakwood, humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body.
― D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.
― Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that’s where I imagine it - there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library.
― Haruki Murakami,Kafka on the Shore