“The edge of the earth trembled in a darkish haze. Upon it lay the sun, going down like a ship in a burning sea. Another postmodern sunset, rich in romantic imagery. Why try to describe it? It’s enough to say that everything in out field of vision seemed to exist in order to gather the light of this event. Not that this was one of the stronger sunsets. There had been more dynamic colours, a deeper sense of narrative sweep.”

White Noise, Don DeLillo

“How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a while? … How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it?”

White Noise, Don DeLillo

“It isn’t that she doesn’t cherish life; it’s being left alone that frightens her. The emptiness, the sense of cosmic darkness.”

White Noise, Don DeLillo

“The smell of panties, the sense of empty afternoons, the feel of things as they rained across our skin, things as facts and passions, the feel of pain, loss, disappointment, breathless delight. In these night recitations we create a space between things as we felt them at the time and as we speak them now. This is the space reserved for irony, sympathy and fond amusement, the means by which we rescue ourselves from the past.”

White Noise, Don DeLillo

“That night, seconds after going to sleep, I seemed to fall through myself, a shallow heart-stopping plunge. Jarred awake, I stared into the dark, realizing I’d experienced the more or less normal muscular contraction known as the myoclonic jerk. Is this what it’s like, abrupt, peremptory? Shouldn’t death, I thought, be a swan dive, graceful, white-winged and smooth, leaving the surface undisturbed?”

White Noise, Don DeLillo

“The edge of the earth trembled in a darkish haze. Upon it lay the sun, going down like a ship in a burning sea. Another postmodern sunset, rich in romantic imagery. Why try to describe it?”

White Noise, Don DeLillo

“Everything runs from the past to the future, but everything should live by the present, for in the future the apple-trees will shed their blossom.”

Kasimir Malevich

“What mattered more was the feeling, a rich sweet undertow so commanding in that class, on the school bus, lying in bed trying to think of something safe and pleasant, some environment or configuration where my chest wasn’t tight with anxiety, all I had to do was sink into the blood-warm current and let myself spin away to the secret place where everything was all right. Cinnamon-colored walls, rain on the windowpanes, vast quiet and a sense of depth and distance, like the varnish over the background of a nineteenth-century painting. Rugs worn to threads, painted Japanese fans and antique valentines flickering in candlelight, Pierrots and doves and flower-garlanded hearts. Pippa’s face pale in the dark.”

The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt

“The immortals, living their life in timeless space, enraptured, re-fashioned and immerses in a crystalline eternity like ether, and the cool starry brightness and radiant serenity of this world outside the earth - whence was all this so intimately known? … In music there was a feeling as of time frozen into space, and above it there quivered a never-ending and superhuman serenity, an eternal, divine laughter.”

Steppenwolf, Herman Hesse

“Let the little way to death be as it might, lost to pitifulness, the kernel of this life of mine was noble. It had purpose and character and turned not on trifles, but on the stars.”

Steppenwolf, Herman Hesse

“At many moments the old and the new, pain and pleasure, fear and joy were quite oddly mixed with one another. Now I was in heaven, now in hell, generally in both at once.”

Steppenwolf, Herman Hesse

“Dear God, how was it possible? How had I, with the wings of youth and poetry, come to this? Art and travel and the glow of ideals - and now this! How had this paralysis of hatred against myself and everyone else, this obstruction of all feeling, this mud-hell of an empty heart and despair crept over me so softly and so slowly?”

Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse

“The wolf, too, has his abysses.”

Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse

“…the bourgeois today burns as heretics and hangs as criminals those to whom he erects monuments tomorrow.”

Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse

©DH