I'll die, you'll die; how could we love each other otherwise? The sun's going to burn out, what else keeps it shining?
I wrote an essay about the rhythm of Tolkien’s writing in The Lord of the Rings. Short rhythms repeated form long rhythms; there’s a cyclical repetition in his work which I think is part of why it tot...
I wish we could stop using the word belief in matters of fact, leaving it where it belongs, in matters of religious faith and secular hope. I believe we'd avoid a lot of unnecessary pain if we did so.
I will not go with you, nor will I be a slave of any Greek. The Earth Mother keeps me here. And you must go a long way for a long time, you must go, my sweet husband until at last, you come to the Wes...
I spoke your true name. It's not what I thought it would be. And I don't feel easy about it. As if I'd left something unfinished. But it is your name. If it betrays you, then that's the truth of it. R...
I know who I was, I can tell you who I may have been, but I am, now, only in this line of words I write. I'm not sure of the nature of my existence, and wonder to find myself writing.
I don’t know. Do men kill men, except in madness? Does any beast kill its own kind? Only the insects. These yumens kill us as lightly as we kill snakes. The one who taught me said that they kill one a...
I did a lot today. That is, I did something. The only thing I have ever done. I pressed a button. It took the entire willpower, the accumulated strength of my entire existence, to press one damned OFF...
History must be what we have escaped from. It is what we were, not what we are. History is what we need never do again.
He was clearly aware of only one thing, his own total isolation. The world had fallen out from under him, and he was left alone. To die is to lose the self and rejoin the rest. He had kept himself, an...
He laid his hands on her head, pushing back the hood. He began to speak. His voice was soft, and the words were in no tongue she had ever heard. The sound of them came into her heart like rain falling...
He keeps some goats, and a garden patch. In autumn he goes wandering over the island, alone, in the forests, on the mountainsides, through the valleys of the rivers. I lived there once with him, when...
He is the earth and sunlight, the leaves of trees, the eagle's flight. He is alive. And all who ever died, live; they are reborn and have no end, nor will there ever be an end.
Geraldine Brooks: People of the Book
For in this love he now felt there was compassion: without which love is untempered, and is not whole, and does not last.
Fire and fear, good servants, bad lords.
Ebediyet beni ilgilendirmez. Ben bir meşeyim, ne bir eksik ne bir fazla. Bir görevim var ve yerine getiriyorum; hoşlandığım şeyler var ve onlardan keyif alıyorum. Gerçi sayıca azaldılar. Çünkü kuşlar...
Do you know how to read?' 'No. It is one of the black arts.' He nodded. 'But a useful one,' he said.
Cured? Goss said. Would you cure a singer of his voice?
Bütün küçük şeyler anlamlıydı, yalnızca bütünü anlamsızdı.