#mournful

Santa Barbara is a paradise; Disneyland is a paradise; the U.S. is a paradise. Paradise is just paradise. Mournful, monotonous, and superficial though it may be, it is paradise. There is no other. ↗

— Jean Baudrillard

#disneyland #just #may #monotonous #mournful

Mournful and yet grand is the destiny of the artist. ↗

— Franz Liszt

#artist #destiny #grand #mournful #yet

And all around is the desert; a corner of the mournful kingdom of sand. ↗

— Pierre Loti

#corner #desert #kingdom #mournful #sand

In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. ↗

— Douglas MacArthur

#again #battlefield #crash #dreams #guns

The wailing owl Screams solitary to the mournful moon. ↗

— David Mallet

#mournful #owl #screams #solitary #wailing

Jerusalem is a festival and a lamentation. Its song is a sigh across the ages, a delicate, robust, mournful psalm at the great junction of spiritual cultures. ↗

— David K. Shipler

#ages #cultures #delicate #festival #great

Misfortune is never mournful to the soul that accepts it; for such do always see that every cloud is an angel's face. ↗

— Lydia M. Child

#always #angel #cloud #every #face

My grandfather played a mandolin, so I got my hands on that. Then on down to a banjo, and I found I couldn't play any kind of soft or mournful music with that so I took up the fiddle in my late 20s or early 30s - and that was far too late. But it keeps me off the streets. It has been a love of mine since I was 17 maybe. ↗

— Brendan Gleeson

#banjo #been #down #early #far

I drag the body out into the snowdrifts, as far away from our shack as I can muster. I put her in a thicket of trees, where the green seems to still have a voice in the branches, and try not to think about the beasts that’ll soon be gathering. There’s no way of burying her; the ground is a solid rock of ice beneath us. I kneel beside her and want desperately to weep. My throat tightens and my head aches. Everything hurts inside. But I have no way of releasing it. I’m locked up and hard as stone. “I’m sorry, Mamma,” I whisper to the shell in front of me. I take her hand. It could belong to a glass doll. There’s no life there anymore. So I gather rocks, one by one, and set them over her, trying my best to protect her from the birds, the beasts, keep her safe as much as I can now. I pile the dark stones gently on her stomach, her arms, and over her face, until she becomes one with the mountain. I stand and study my work, feeling like the rocks are on me instead, then I leave the body for the forest and ice. ↗

— Rachel A. Marks

#burry #cold #dead #dead-and-gone #death