All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be king.
All the books of the world don't give you happiness, but in secret they refer to you.
There is everything you needin there, sun stars moon.
Because the light that you looked for lives in your chest.
The wisdom that you have looked for a long time in a library sines in every sheet, because now it's yours.
There is a life visible to everyone, and there is another one that only belongs to us, of which nobody knows nothing.
Everyone has his own "not man's land" in which it's the total owner of himself. This doeen't mean at all that, from ethics point of view, one it's moral and the other one is immoral; one is licit and the other one illicit. Simply the man every now and then escapes to any control, he lives in the freedom and the mystery.
Writing os one of the most solitary activities in the world. Once every two years, I sit in front of my computer, I observe my soul's unknown ocean and I see a few islands - ideas which are developing and that are ready to be explored. And so I take my boat - its name is "Word" - and I choose to sail towards the closest of them. On the journey, I come across currents, winds and storms, but I go on rowing, growing more tired. I am conscious of being off route, of not having on the horizon the island I wanted to reach anymore. All the same there is no way of going back: I have to continue anyway, or I shall find myself lost amidst the ocean. At that moment a series of terrifying images cross my mind: I that spend the rest of my life talking of previous success, or sourly crticizing new writers for the simple fact of not having the courage of publishing any new material. But wasn't my dream that of being a writer? Therefore I must go on creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters and Wrtiting to exhaustion, without letting myself be paralized by success, by defeat, by traps along the way.
Shaken by such absurd thoughts, I find within myself a strength and courage of which I ignored the existence: they help me to adventure to the boundless side of my soul. I let myself be carried by the currents and I end up anchoring my boat in the proximity of the island to where I have been taken. I spend days and nights wrtiting what I see, asking myself why am I acting this way, repeating to myself every moment why this effort has become useless, that I have no nedd to prove anything to anyone, that I have already obtained what I wanted and a lot more of what I could possibly dream of.
The deeds were monstrous, but the doer--at least, the very effective one now on trial--was quite ordinary, commonplace, and neither monstrous nor demonic.
I had been surrounded with fancied beings, with mere airy nothings conjured up by poetic power, yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality.
I can't die yet, doctor. Not yet. I have things to do. Afterwards I'll have a whole lifetime in which to die.
I had not understood that this was a story about lonely people, about absence and loss, and that that was why I had taken refuge in it until it became confused with my own life, like someone who has escaped into the pages of a novel because those whom he needs to love seem nothing more than ghosts inhabiting the mind of a stranger.
You're saying it wrong... It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long.
When we don't seem to think about nothing, acyually we think about what we care. The love is like gravity force: invisible and universal, like the physical one. Inevitably our heart, our eyes, our words, without realizing it end up there, on what we love, like the apple with the gravity.