Knowing Things Quotes (page 59)
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I sit beside the fire and think Of all that I have seen. Of meadow flowers and butterflies. In summers that have been. Of yellow leaves and gossamer. In autumns that there were. With morning mist and silver sun. And wind upon my hair. I sit beside the fire and think. Of how the world will be. When winter comes without a spring That I shall ever see. For still there are so many things. That I have never seen. In every wood in every spring. There is a different green. I sit beside the fire and...
J. R. R. Tolkien
Not to know one's true identity is to be a mad, disensouled thing? a golem. And, indeed, this image, sick-eningly Orwellian, applies to the mass of human beings now living in the high-tech industrial democracies. Their authenticity lies in their ability to obey and follow mass style changes that are conveyed through the media. Immersed in junk food, trash media, and cryp-tofascist politics, they are condemned to toxic lives of low awareness. Sedated by the prescripted daily television fix,...
Terence McKenna
Travellers at least have a choice. Those who set sail know that things will not be the same as at home. Explorers are prepared. But for us, who travel along the blood vessels, who come to the cities of the interior by chance, there is no preparation. We who were fluent find life is a foreign language. Somewhere between the swamp and the mountains. Somewhere between fear and sex. Somewhere between God and the Devil passion is and the way there is sudden and the way back is worse.
Jeanette Winterson
I watch the morning dawn upon your skin, A splinter in the light, It caught and frayed the very heart of us, It's been hiding there inside for all this time, How a sure thing winds up just like this, Clockwork silence only knows, And it's no one's fault, There's no black and white, Only you and me, On this endless night, And as the hours run away, With another life, Oh, darling can't you see, It's now or never, It's now or never.
Josh Groban
And sometimes it happened, for a time. That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. You would look at the man one day and you would think, I loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done; and you would know too why your friends had been evasive about it, at the time. There is a good deal of comfort, now, in remembering this.
Margaret Atwood
