This is the room of the wolfmother wallpaper.
. . . love given without free will or truthfulness wasn't love at all.
As long as there is love and memory, there is no true loss.
He seemed to realize she was staring at him, because the cursing stopped. "You cut me," he said. His voice was pleasant. British. Very ordinary. He looked at his hand with critcal interest. "It might be fatal. " Tessa looked at him with wide eyes. "Are you the Magister?" He tilted his hand to the side. Blood ran down it, spattering the floor. "Dear me, massive blood loss. Death could be imminent.
Every heart has its own melody.
Life is a book and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read.
The more you try to crush your true nature, the more it will control you. Be what you are. No one who really loves you will stop.
On two occasions I have been asked, 'Pray, Mr. Babbage, if you put into the machine wrong figures, will the right answers come out?' I am not able rightly to apprehend the kind of confusion of ideas that could provoke such a question.
The observer is the observed.
My original book [Straight to the Heart: Political Cantos] was 1,700 pages. The first editor brought it down to 700; there was a lot that didn't make it in. But at last it's finished. I had a hard time signing off on it. And I was worried about it hurting anyone I loved even indirectly. I sat in my room afterwards for two hours wondering what I had done. I wondered about it being judged and if people would understand.
You have to get inside the people you are writing about. You have to go below the surface. And that's to a very large degree what all writers are doing - they're trying to get below the surface. Whether it's in fiction or poetry or writing history and biography. Some people make that possible because they write wonderful letters and diaries. And you have to sort of go where the material is.