I’m sorry to anyone who checks in often enough to notice that I have neglected this blog. I realize that. But if nothing else I’ve not neglected writing.
And while I can’t put any of it up here, I look forward to being able to turn those words into something much more real than a blog post very soon.
She said she usually cried at least once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful & life was so short.
A book is made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called “leaves”) imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic.
Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe.
—Haruki Murakami, Kafka On The Shore