chandaurwoh

[chandaurwoh]

Flowers only, and the moonlight coloured May.

Virginia Woolf, The Waves

[chandaurwoh]

Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours

[chandaurwoh]

“Why can’t people just sit and read books and be nice to each other?”

— David Baldacci, The Camel Club

[chandaurwoh]

“We lived harder. Knew better. But we laughed anyway. Laughed because there was nothing else to do but give up.”

— Michelle Hodkin

[chandaurwoh]

[chandaurwoh]

neil hilborn, numbered days

[chandaurwoh]

I miss you! Why? I dunno? Do I even know you? No, I don’t! Then why do I miss you? Again the answer is the same as before, I dunno. Did I ever indulge in long conversations with you? No! Then why I do I miss talking to you? Again the answer is the same, I dunno. I miss walking beside you, eating with you, watching my favourite show with you, travelling the world with you? But why? Did I ever done any of this with you before, No! Then why do I feel the pangs of anxiety taking over me at sudden hours, and I miss you like anything. Why do I dream often about you? Why did this longing never leaves me, the longing of seeing you, wanting you, talking to you and be yours for eternity. I don’t even know you, how aggressive you are? Or if you are a womaniser? Or what if you are a corrupt person inside out? What if you are a liar or a manipulative psychotic? I don’t know a thing about you and yet the urge to spend the rest of my life with you is maddening. I often weave this scene of bumping into you all of a sudden on a busy cobbled street under a lamp post with ivy vines twirling around it and I would act like a stranger but deep inside my heart would be beating so fast that if the world stops and listens to the my heart beat their ears might explode. In short, I miss you.

[chandaurwoh]

do you remember the last day of your childhood..

[chandaurwoh]

You won’t understand anything about the imagination until you realise that it’s not about making things up, it’s about perception.

Philip Pullman, from ‘The Secret Commonwealth’

[chandaurwoh]

“Do you remember when we first met? I thought I had wandered into a dream.”

— J.R.R. Tolkien

[chandaurwoh]

Skies, skies and skies!

Skies make me wander into faraway lands. Lands of mist and fae, lands filled with stardust and moon rivers. Lands where there is no grief but eternal happiness. Lands where there is only peace and no death, where nobody breaks your heart and where nobody leaves you. Whenever I look at the skies, it reminds me of paradise, the beauty of paradise and the life there. 🌙

[chandaurwoh]

“Mais le problème c’est qu’il n’y a pas de tournants, sur mon chemin à moi. Je le vois s’étirer droit devant jusqu’à l’horizon, d’une monotonie sans fin. Oh, la vie ne vous effraie donc jamais, Anne, tant elle est vide, tant elle grouille de gens froids, inintéressants ?”

—

Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne de Windy Willows

English : But the trouble is there aren’t any bends in my road. I can see it stretching straight out before me to the sky-line…endless monotony. Oh, does life ever frighten you, Anne, with its blankness…its swarms of cold, uninteresting people?

[chandaurwoh]

Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there. That gnaws away at the night-time hours desperate for a sign and appears at breakfast so self-composed. That longs for certainty, fidelity, compassion, and plays roulette with anything precious.

Jeanette Winterson, from ‘The Passion’

[chandaurwoh]

“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”

—Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

[chandaurwoh]

Sometimes I miss my mother so much, even if she is sleeping in the next room. I miss her even when she is sitting right in front of me. Why? Can a person love another human being so much? That they miss them even when they are right in front of them. I think I can never love anybody the way I love my parents. I love my mom and dad the most💖

[chandaurwoh]

“There were bowls of flowers on every table, late-summer roses and bronze chrysanthemums.”

— Sarah Waters, from The Little Stranger

[chandaurwoh]

[…] a great wind of madness howled through her […]

Susanna Clarke, from ‘Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell’