I have periods where everything I ever encountered– grass and trees, music, the taste of food, the way people move, the miracle of colors, even my own worn thoughts– seems luminous and razor-cut in clairty, exactly like the whole world seemed to me at seventeen. What a gift at this late date. Memories from deep into the last century come blowing through me and I can hardly stand against their force.
We all reach a point where we would like to draw a line across time and declare everything on the far side null. Shed our past life like a pair of wet and muddy trousers, just roll their heavy clinging fabric down our legs and step away. We also reach a point where we would give the rest of our withering days for the month of July in our seventeenth year. But no thread of Araidne exists to lead us back there.
Charles Frazier, Thirteen Moons
“In November, the smell of food is different. It is an orange smell. A squash and pumpkin smell. It tastes like cinnamon and can fill up a house in the morning, can pull everyone from bed in a fog.”
― Cynthia Rylant, In November
“when we broke the surface again the first thing I saw was the great bold strip of the Milky Way painted across the heavens, and it occurred to me that together the fish and the stars formed a complete system, coincident parts of some ancient and mysterious whole” – Ransom Riggs, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children
“You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be where. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should” — Max Erhmann