My solitude is sublime; the roaring of the wind is my wife; and the stars through my window-panes, these beautiful particles, constantly fill up my heart. The mighty abstract idea of Beauty in all things, I have, stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness. I feel more and more, every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone, but in a thousand worlds.
John Keats, Life & Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)
Virginia Woolf was a writer’s writer. For as many moments of artistic despair as there are, one also finds glimmers of hope, of faith in the process. In 1933, she wrote, “I must not let myself believe that I’m simply a ladylike prattler: […] No, I must say to myself, this is a mere wisp, a veil of water; and so create, hardly, fiercely, as I feel now more able to do than ever before.” In 1934, she spoke directly to those of us who would come after her: “A note, by way of advising other Virginias with other books that this is the way of the thing: up down up down – and Lord knows the truth.”
I began to realize how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. If you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good.
Roal Dahl (via aworldofexperiences)
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