1
" Because it begins to seem to me at such times that I am incapable of beginning a life in real life, because it has seemed to me that I have lost all touch, all instinct for the actual, the real; because at last I have cursed myself; because after my fantastic nights I have moments of returning sobriety, which are awful! Meanwhile, you hear the whirl and roar of the crowd in the vortex of life around you; you hear, you see, men living in reality; you see that life for them is not forbidden, that their life does not float away like a dream, like a vision; that their life is being eternally renewed, eternally youthful, and not one hour of it is the same as another; while fancy is so spiritless, monotonous to vulgarity and easily scared, the slave of shadows, of the idea, the slave of the first cloud that shrouds the sun... One feels that this inexhaustible fancy is weary at last and worn out with continual exercise, because one is growing into manhood, outgrowing one's old ideals: they are being shattered into fragments, into dust; if there is no other life one must build one up from the fragments. And meanwhile the soul longs and craves for something else! And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams, as though seeking a spark among the embers, to fan them into flame, to warm his chilled heart by the rekindled fire, and to rouse up in it again all that was so sweet, that touched his heart, that set his blood boiling, drew tears from his eyes, and so luxuriously deceived him! "
― Fyodor Dostoevsky , White Nights
5
" Before every elementary school classroom had a 'Drop Everything and Read' period, before parents and educators agonized more about children being glued to Call of Duty or getting sucked into the vortex of the Internet, reading as a childhood activity was not always revered. Maybe it was in some families, in some towns, in some magical places that seemed to exist only in stories, but not where I was. Nobody trotted out the kid who read all the time as someone to be admired like the ones who did tennis and ballet and other feats requiring basic coordination.
While those other kids pursued their after-school activities in earnest, I failed at art, gymnastics, ice skating, soccer, and ballet with a lethal mix of inability, fear and boredom. Coerced into any group endeavor, I wished I could just be home already. Rainy days were a godsend because you could curl up on a sofa without being banished into the outdoors with an ominous 'Go play outside.'
Well into adulthood, I would chastise myself over not settling on a hobby—knitting or yoga or swing dancing or crosswords—and just reading instead. The default position. Everyone else had a passion; where was mine? How much happier I would have been to know that reading was itself a passion. Nobody treated it that way, and it didn't occur to me to think otherwise. "
― Pamela Paul , My Life with Bob: Flawed Heroine Keeps Book of Books, Plot Ensues
13
" The boy knelt, shoulders bowed, on the sand in the grey of morning, moaning softly, fearfully. Glowing tendrils of energy streamed across the agitated sky, converging high above him in a vortex of brightness. He flung his hands heavenward and a sheet of blinding brilliance descended from the vortex. It enveloped him and from its core a pulsing sphere of light fell, entering his body and almost tearing him apart. He went rigid, screaming to shatter the heavens, his dark eyes bulging from their sockets, his mouth wide in a rictus of agony. Sirius exploded in a burst of silver-blue radiance, as his howl rose to a shriek beyond hearing and endurance. Out of the light and the sound and the anguish, two names imprinted themselves on his mind. One of them, he knew, was his own. The other floated for an instant above his consciousness like a fugitive white dove in the morning. "
16
" Inconstancy of every second punishes me.
The wind, the rain, the clouds, the days,
I try to grasp the hours but they banish me,
And I remain in the vortex of incongruity.
The lone coyote shrieks,
Startling my soul into wakefulness.
The Cacti bloom and the Wren beckons,
Deepening my mind into dreamlessness.
And the moments spend time with inconstancy,
increasing the ease of uneasiness.
Why this daily pilgrimage of ideas?
When no saint has ever ceased the day!
Still yearning for some magic hour,
Where nothing but permanence dwells.
Alas, only this thought be the only truth,
That certainty in death is constant.
And so, in every second, minute, hour,
our only gain is memory.
Be it bitter or sweet:
it is ours!
Rejoice. "
― Ansul Noor , Soul Fire (A Mystical Journey through Poetry)
18
" Leo was a force of nature. He lived life big and loud in all respects…which meant that when he got riled up, everyone was sucked into the vortex along with him. His temper was legendary, but then again, so were his passions. He was charming and charismatic, brilliant and quick. He loved to argue, loved to box and work out, loved to laugh, loved to…love. And from the day they’d met, he’d swept her up into his whirlwind sphere, and she felt like she hadn’t been allowed a second to breathe since. Not that she’d minded, not while it had all still been safe and contained. She’d delighted in his passions…all of them. But everything was different now. "
― J.K. Coi , Sleeping With the Opposition (Bad Boy Bosses, #3)