Literature about literature
Literature about literature about literature
Lit of my life, fire of my lores!
My thing, my thought.
How beautiful and sad that was! How beautiful the words were when they said BURY ME IN THE OLD CHURCHYARD! A tremor passed over his body. How sad and how beautiful! He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. The bell! The bell! Farewell! O Farewell!
Reader, whenever I post a quote, know that it is because I found the words profoundly beautiful; know that I was saddened to find that their sadness echoed my own; know, if you can, how words on a page move me so.
Passage, beautiful, inky temptress, I pressed my fingertips on your imprint hoping you’d seep inside and stay.