“Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.”
— Virginia Woolf in a letter to Vita Sackville-West, 1926
Night :
an oratory of dark,
a chapel of unreason.
— Eavan Boland, from “Solitary,” New Collected Poems (Carcanet, 2005)
A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.
— Franz Kafka
Wrapt in the wave of that music, with weariness more
than of earth,
The moil of my centuries filled me; and gone like a
sea-covered stone
Were the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the
memories of the whole of my mirth,
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me
full to the bone.
— W. B. Yeats, The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I
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