The inner life has its soft and gentle beauty; an abstract formlessness as well as a subtle charm. I often consider myself as a figure in a foggy painting: faltering lines, insecure distances, and a merging of greys and blacks. An emotion or a mood—a mere wisp of color—is shaded off and made to spread until it becomes one with all that surrounds it.
— Virginia Woolf, from “Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals, 1897-1909” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1991)
The thing I’m most afraid of is me. Of not knowing what I’m going to do. Of not knowing what I’m doing right now.
— 1Q84, Haruki Murakami, pg 294 (via lavenderdestroyer)
I was alternately stimulated and depressed. It seemed to me that I was half unlearning what I had never learned and yet knew so well—how to live.
— Albert Camus, from The Fall (via loveage-moondream)