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I look at the mountain, which is still doing its tricks, as you look at a still-beautiful face belonging to a person who was once your lover in another country years ago: with fond nostalgia, and recognition, but no real feeling save a secret astonishment that you are now strangers. Thanks. For the memories.
Annie DillardIt was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance.
Annie DillardLook, I am living. On what? Neither the childhood nor future/ grows any smaller...Superabundant being/ wells up in my heart.
Audrey NiffeneggerThe silence is all there is. It is the alpha and the omega, it is God's brooding over the face of the waters; it is the blinded note of the ten thousand things, the whine of wings. You take a step in the right direction to pray to this silence, and even to address the prayer to "World." Distinctions blur. Quit your tents. Pray without ceasing.
Annie Dillardlife by its mere appalling length is a feat of endurance for which you haven't the strength.
Annie DillardPerhaps growing up meant we put our knives away and feigned ignorance of the damage.
Barbara KingsolverThe 2-week delay of her letters had caused me to keep a distrustful eye on Hallie, like a star so many light years away it could have exploded long ago while we still watched its false shine.
Barbara KingsolverSometimes I still have American dreams. I mean literally. I see microwave ovens and exercise machines and grocery store shelves with 30 brands of shampoo, and I look at these things oddly, in my dream. I stand and think, "What is all this for? What is the hunger that drives this need?" I think it's fear. Codi, I hope you won't be hurt by this, but I don't think I'll ever be going back. I don't think I can.
Barbara KingsolverI think of how long we search to find a place we might call ours, where we might feel we have found a home: the perfect house in the perfect town; the sacred hollow; that place in the heart we call love; the state of grace we call salvation.
Kim BarnesI carry it all with me, in the quiet pools and strong currents of my being. I fill my hands with the black dirt left by the river's birth. I believe that what I hold in my hands is memory: like the river, it takes what it touches, carrying it along until all that remains is the bed over which the water flows.
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