#ife

You cut life to pieces with your epigrams. ↗

— Oscar Wilde

#irony #life

Striving to live the ordinary life in a non-ordinary way. ↗

— Book of Runes

#rune #life

Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib, und Gesang, Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang (He who loves not Wine, Women and Song Remains a fool his whole life long) ↗

— Martin Luther

#love #song #wine #women #life

Life comes at you hard and fast, it doesn’t slow for anybody. It weathers you, destroys you. It breaks down your mind, body, and soul until there’s nothing left. Then what? ↗

— Skyla Madi

#love #salvation #skyla-madi #life

We half to make our lives meaningful in spite of what we don't know. ↗

— Anne Rice

#meaningful #reality #truth #life

The name Kyirong means “the village of happiness,” and it really deserves the name. I shall never cease thinking of this place with yearning, and if I can choose where to pass the evening of my life, it will be in Kyirong. There I would build myself a house of red cedar wood and have one of the rushing mountain streams running through my garden, in which every kind of fruit would grow, for though its altitude is over 9,000 feet, Kyirong lies on the twenty-eighth parallel. When we arrived in January the temperature was just below freezing it seldom falls below -10 degrees Centigrade. The seasons correspond to the Alps, but the vegetation is subtropical. Once can go skiing the whole year round, and in the summer there is a row of 20,000-footers to climb. ↗

— Heinrich Harrer

#tibet #travel-writing #life

Meridian First daylight on the bittersweet-hung sleeping porch at high summer; dew all over the lawn, sowing diamond- point-highlighted shadows; the hired man's shadow revolving along the walk, a flash of milkpails passing; no threat in sight, no hint anywhere in the universe, of that apathy at the meridian, the noon of absolute boredom; flies crooning black lullabies in the kitchen, milk-soured crocks, cream separator still unwashed; what is there to life but chores and more chores, dishwater, fatigue, unwanted children; nothing to stir the longueur of afternoon except possibly thunderheads; climbing, livid, turreted alabaster lit up from within by splendor and terror -- forded lightening's split-second disaster. ↗

— Amy Clampitt

#life

A loose end - that's what we woman call it, when we are overwhelmed by the care of small children, the weight of small tasks, a life in which we fall into bed at the end of the day exhausted from being all things to all people. ↗

— Anna Quindlen

#life

I read what I'd written and thought once again: from what violent chasms is my most intimate intimacy nourished, why does it deny itself so much and flee to the domain of ideas? I feel within me a subterranean violence, a violence that only comes to the surface during the act of writing. ↗

— Clarice Lispector

#life

They, like me, like all of us, had, once upon a time, in a past so far away it seemed like heaven, caught by chance a glimpse of an inner essence, only to forget what it was. It was this lost memory that pained us, reduced us to ruins, though still we struggled to be ourselves. ↗

— Orhan Pamuk

#memory #life