“Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape? If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!”—J.R.R. Tolkien (via misswallflower)
“Passions are failings of virtues, only intensified. Passions are real phoenixes, as the old one burns out, the new one rises immediately out of the ashes. Great passions are a hopeless sickness. What might cure them is what makes them dangerous.”—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Elective Affinities (@jamesperryperry)
“eAfter the earth dies, some 5 billion years from now, after it’s burned to a crisp, or even swallowed by the Sun, there will be other worlds and stars and galaxies coming into being — and they will know nothing of a place once called Earth.”—Carl Sagan (via rusholme)
I have no interest in lingering in my own sadness. Certain people might think that there is beauty in it, and they might be right, of course. There is an almost blinding beauty in sadness, cold and bright and hard like diamonds. It might appear precious and fragile, but it isn’t. Sadness is not fragile, it might make you more breakable, change you into glass, but it is only strength as it clings to you with metallic fingers, an iron grip. It is treacherous. It makes you believe that this state of being is familiar and comforting, it makes you want to stay. But sadness is a large pool of salted water, like tears, like the sea, and you can float and swim and dive all you want, but hurt yourself a bit, get a cramp, get too tired, and it will drown you. People like fragile things. They appear so precious and valuable. Sadness is all blue, watery, glass and crystalline. You want to wrap it in gauze and silk and hold it close so it doesn’t bang on sharp corners and crack. It wants you to believe this. It is lying.
I will try to hold on happiness instead. It is the elusive one, the fragile one that slips between your fingers so easily, slippery. It doesn’t cling to you like sadness does, it only wants to fly. You have to cling to it. You have to carry it in your chest, safe between your ribs, next to your heart. You have to avoid sharp corners. You have to let it burn slowly, brightly, your own little sun. And try to avoid swimming in pools of salted water for too long, lest they extinguish it.
“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.” That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”—Dead Poets Society (via bookmania)