143
" When I went on anyway, my body began to grow cold, and I thought I
was dead. Face pale, my dead self sat down on a bench and began to turn
toward my real self, who was watching this hallucination on the screen of the
night. My dead self came nearer, just as if it might want to shake hands with my
real self. That's when I panicked and tried to run. But my dead self pursued me
and finally caught me, entered me and controlled me. I'd felt then just the way I
felt now. I felt as if a hole had opened in my head from which consciousness
and memory leaked out and in their place the rash crowded in, and a cold like
spoiled roast chicken. But that time before, shaking and clinging to the damp
bench, I'd told myself, Hey, take a good look, isn't the world still under your
feet? I'm on this ground, and on this same ground are trees and grass and ants
carrying sand to their nests, little girls chasing rolling balls, and puppies running. "
― Ryū Murakami , Almost Transparent Blue
152
" Asking a writer why they like to write {in the theoretical sense of the question} is like asking a person why they breathe. For me, writing is a natural reflex to the beauty, the events, and the people I see around me. As Anais Nin put it, " We write to taste life twice." I live and then I write. The one transfers to the other, for me, in a gentle, necessary way. As prosaic as it sounds, I believe I process by writing. Part of the way I deal with stressful situations, catty people, or great joy or great trials in my own life is by conjuring it onto paper in some way; a journal entry, a blog post, my writing notebook, or my latest story. While I am a fair conversationalist, my real forte is expressing myself in words on paper. If I leave it all chasing round my head like rabbits in a warren, I'm apt to become a bug-bear to live with and my family would not thank me. Some people need counselors. Some people need long, drawn-out phone-calls with a trusted friend. Some people need to go out for a run. I need to get away to a quiet, lonesome corner--preferably on the front steps at gloaming with the North Star trembling against the darkening blue. I need to set my pen fiercely against the page {for at such moments I must be writing--not typing.} and I need to convert the stress or excitement or happiness into something to be shared with another person.The beauty of the relationship between reading and writing is its give-and-take dynamic. For years I gathered and read every book in the near vicinity and absorbed tale upon tale, story upon story, adventures and sagas and dramas and classics. I fed my fancy, my tastes, and my ideas upon good books and thus those aspects of myself grew up to be none too shabby. When I began to employ my fancy, tastes, and ideas in writing my own books, the dawning of a strange and wonderful idea tinged the horizon of thought with blush-rose colors: If I persisted and worked hard and poured myself into the craft, I could create one of those books. One of the heart-books that foster a love of reading and even writing in another person somewhere. I could have a hand in forming another person's mind. A great responsibility and a great privilege that, and one I would love to be a party to. Books can change a person. I am a firm believer in that. I cannot tell you how many sentiments or noble ideas or parts of my own personality are woven from threads of things I've read over the years. I hoard quotations and shadows of quotations and general impressions of books like a tzar of Russia hoards his icy treasures. They make up a large part of who I am. I think it's worth saying again: books can change a person. For better or for worse. As a writer it's my two-edged gift to be able to slay or heal where I will. It's my responsibility to wield that weapon aright and do only good with my words. Or only purposeful cutting. I am not set against the surgeon's method of butchery--the nicking of a person's spirit, the rubbing in of a salty, stinging salve, and the ultimate healing-over of that wound that makes for a healthier person in the end. It's the bitter herbs that heal the best, so now and again you might be called upon to write something with more cayenne than honey about it. But the end must be good. We cannot let the Light fade from our words. "
157
" And the bubbles of light again rose and fell, and in their disordered, irregular, turbulent maze, mingled with the wan moonlight. And now from these globules themselves as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things burst out; the air grew filled with them; larvae so bloodless and so hideous that I can in no way describe them except to remind the reader of the swarming life which the solar microscope brings before his eyes in a drop of water - things transparent, supple, agile, chasing each other, devouring each other - forms like nought ever beheld by the naked eye. As the shapes were without symmetry, so their movements were without order. In their very vagrancies there was no sport; they came round me and round, thicker and faster and swifter, swarming over my head, crawling over my right arm, which was outstretched in involuntary command against all evil beings. (" The House And The Brain" ) "
158
" She had heard it said that, before you could understand anybody, you needed to walk a mile in their shoes, which did not make a whole lot of sense, because probably AFTER you had walked a mile in their shoes, you would understand that they were chasing you and accusing you of the theft of a pair of shoes--although, of course, you could probably outrun them, owing to their lack of footwear. "
― Terry Pratchett , I Shall Wear Midnight (Discworld, #38; Tiffany Aching, #4)
159
" Everyday, in our quest to grab the new, the trendy, the coolest stuff, we forget to use the old and our daily lives become stuck in the vicious cycle, chasing after stuff without working the old. Today, pause, slow down, take time, revisit those lessons, materials and take the necessary baby-steps. It pays. Go, make it happen! "
― Bernard Kelvin Clive
160
" Blue jeans, white shirtWalked into the room you know you made my eyes burnIt was like, James Dean, for sureYou're so fresh to death and sick as ca-cancerYou were sorta punk rock, I grew up on hip hopBut you fit me better than my favourite sweater, and I knowThat love is mean, and love hurtsBut I still remember that day we met in december, oh baby!I will love you 'til the end of timeI would wait a million yearsPromise you'll remember that you're mineBaby can you see through the tearsLove you moreThan those bitches beforeSay you'll remember, oh baby, say you'll rememberI will love you 'til the end of timeBig dreams, gangsterSaid you had to leave to start your life overI was like, “No please, stay here,We don't need no money we can make it all work,”But he headed out on sunday, said he'd come home mondayI stayed up waitin', anticipatin', and pacin'But he was chasing paper" Caught up in the game" ‒ that was the last I heardI will love you 'til the end of timeI would wait a million yearsPromise you'll remember that you're mineBaby can you see through the tearsLove you moreThan those bitches beforeSay you'll remember, oh baby, say you'll rememberI will love you 'til the end of timeYou went out every nightAnd baby that's alrightI told you that no matter what you did I'd be by your sideCause Imma ride or dieWhether you fail or flyWell shit at least you tried.But when you walked out that door, a piece of me diedI told you I wanted more-but that's not what I had in mindI just want it like beforeWe were dancing all nightThen they took you away-stole you out of my lifeYou just need to remember....I will love you 'til the end of timeI would wait a million yearsPromise you'll remember that you're mineBaby can you see through the tearsLove you moreThan those bitches beforeSay you'll remember, oh baby, say you'll rememberI will love you 'til the end of time "
