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    Why should I be bothering myself with questions which shall eternally remain unanswered? How queer that wave of agony; melancholy paralyzing my senses, beautifully, yet for nothing.
— Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 5 July 1919. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)

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from The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

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from Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak

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from The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood

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from Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham

    I like to go out of the room talking, with an unfinished casual sentence on my lips.
— Virginia Woolf, Diary Entry, 8 April 1925. (via violentwavesofemotion)
posted 1 year ago | via | © | 113 #virginia woolf #excerpt
    She fit her head under his chin, and he could feel her weight settle into him. He held her tight and words spilled out of him without prior composition. And this time he made no effort to clamp them off. He told her about the first time he had looked on the back of her neck as she sat in the church pew. Of the feeling that had never let go of him since. He talked to her of the great waste of years between then and now. A long time gone. And it was pointless, he said, to think how those years could have been put to better use, for he could hardly have put them to worse. There was no recovering them now. You could grieve endlessly for the loss of time and the damage done therein. For the dead, and for your own lost self. But what the wisdom of the ages says is that we do well not to grieve on and on. And those old ones knew a thing or two and had some truth to tell, Inman said, for you can grieve your heart out and in the end you are still where you are. All your grief hasn’t changed a thing. What you have lost will not be returned to you. It will always be lost. You’re left with only your scars to mark the void. All you can choose to do is go on or not. But if you go on, it’s knowing you carry your scars with you. Nevertheless, over all those wasted years, he had held in his mind the wish to kiss her on the back of her neck, and now he had done it. There was a redemption of some kind, he believed, in such complete fulfillment of a desire so long deferred.
— Charles Frazier, Cold Mountain (via bookmania)
posted 2 years ago | via | | 351 #Cold Mountain #Charles Frazier #excerpt
    ‎If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets.
— Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore (via bookmania)

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from The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

    You clench your teeth. You look up. You tell yourself that if they see you cry, it will hurt them, and you will be nothing but a sadness in their lives, and you must not become a mere sadness, so you will not cry, and you say all of this to yourself while looking up at the ceiling, and then you swallow even though your throat does not want to close and you look at the person who loves you and smile.
— John Green, The Fault in Our Stars (via bookmania)
    No, the words meant absolutely nothing to her now. She could not even get an echo of her old emotion.
— Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
    But she feared time itself,as if it had been a dial cut in impassive stone, the dwindling of life; how year by year her share was sliced; how little the margin that remained was capable any longer of stretching, of absorbing the colours, salts, tones of existence, so that she filled the room she entered, and felt often as she stood hesitating one moment on the threshold of her drawing-room, an exquisite suspense, such as might stay a diver before plunging while the sea darkens and brightens beneath him.
— Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)

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from Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

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from Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk

    I can listen no longer in silence. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. I have loved none but you.
— Jane Austen, Persuasion (via bookmania)
posted 2 years ago | via | | 1244 #Persuasion #Jane Austen #excerpt