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VIRGINIA WOOLF ~ SOLITUDE

in The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by
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“To love makes one solitary, she thought.”
Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway (1925)

LOUIS DE BERNIERES ~ FALLING IN LOVE

in The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by
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When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots are become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day. It is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body. No… don’t blush. I am telling you some truths. For that is just being in love; which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away… (Iannis to Pelagia)

CAPTAIN CORELLI’S MANDOLINE
Louis de Bernières

Painting by Kees van Dongen

EMILY BRONTE ~ VARIOUS FEELINGS OF LOVE

in The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by
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“He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine.”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights.

ANNA KARENINA ~ A STORY OF LOVE AND DESPAIR

in The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by
garbo karenina

“Sometimes she did not know what she feared, what she desired: whether she feared or desired what had been or what would be, and precisely what she desired, she did not know.”
― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Photo: Greta Garbo, 1934


AKOSAH KWADWO ~ THE HEART IS NOT YET SWEET

in Poetry of Art by
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And then we added the colors in the rain

The hundred pins in the skeletons of dust

In the dawn and evening

Of the wedding of mourning

In the earth of the harsh country

But if the sun falls

Within you in the years

And the heart is not yet sweet

Let no one touch it

In the how many years of the sun…

Akosah Kwadwo
2012

Painting is A Summer Night, 1890 by Winslow Homer

OCTAVIO PAZ ~ THE LOVE IN LOVE

in Poetry of Art/Poetical Visions by
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At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of speech and the vertigo of death;
the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens;
the laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments;
the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page;
the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses,
for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the day-sorrow desert;
the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self;
the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors;
the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the
garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl;
the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought;
the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands;
the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language;
the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love in love.”
― Octavio Paz

HENRY MILLER ~ HIS PASSION FOR ANAIS NIN

in The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by
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“Anaïs, I don’t know how to tell you what I feel. I live in perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realize completely your presence. And then it is too late. You numb me. […] This is a little drunken, Anaïs. I am saying to myself “here is the first woman with whom I can be absolutely sincere.” I remember your saying – “you could fool me, I wouldn’t know it.” When I walk along the boulevards and think of that. I can’t fool you – and yet I would like to. I mean that I can never be absolutely loyal – it’s not in me. I love women, or life, too much – which it is, I don’t know. But laugh, Anaïs, I love to hear you laugh. You are the only woman who has a sense of gaiety, a wise tolerance – no more, you seem to urge me to betray you. I love you for that. […]
I don’t know what to expect of you, but it is something in the way of a miracle. I am going to demand everything of you – even the impossible, because you encourage it. You are really strong. I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me.”
Henry Miller (A Literate Passion : Letters of Anais Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953)

D.H. LAWRENCE ~ THE ADORATION OF A WOMAN

in The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by
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“It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if se adored him too much, then she would lose herself, become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it.

D.H. Lawrence – Lady Chatterley’s Lover

G.B. SHAW ~ PASSION AND INSPIRATION OF THE MUSE

in Muses in a Surreal World by
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* “I want my dark lady. I want my angel. I want my tempter. I want the lighter of my seven lamps of beauty, honour, laughter, music, love, life and immortality. I want my inspiration, my folly, my happiness, my divinity, my madness, my selfishness, my final sanity and sanctification, my transfiguration, my purification, my light across the sea, my palm across the desert, my garden of lovely flowers, my million nameless joys, my day’s wage, my night’s dream, my darling and my star.” ~

George Bernard Shaw in a letter to Mrs. Campbell.

Mrs. Campbell 1865 – 1940 was a British actress; the first actress to play “Eliza Doolittle in George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, which was the inspiration for the musical My Fair Lady.

CHAGALL ~ ON ULTIMATE LOVE

in Just a bit of everything and everyone.../Passion Of Art by
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“Her pale coloring, her eyes, how big and round and black they are! They are my eyes, my soul…I know this is she, my wife”

-Marc Chagall, in My Life, on meeting Bella Rosenfeld for the first time

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