Thursday, March 28, 2024 Text is available under the CC BY-SA 3.0 licence.

Joanna Newsom

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And all that we built, and all that we breathed
And all that we spilled or pulled up like weeds
Is piled up in back and it burns irrevocably
And we spoke up in turns 'til the silence crept over me.
--
Sadie

 
Joanna Newsom

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He paused and stood up, looking at the shadows under the trees. His voice was lower when he spoke again.
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He knelt down again and was busy with his knife. The boys crowded round him. He spoke over his shoulder to Roger.
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William Golding
 

I think it was when I got to the butterflies -- in that brief, beautiful image comprising life, death and technology -- that the hair on the back of my neck began to stand on end. All at once, the pleasure I took in reading was altered irrevocably. Before then I had never noticed, somehow, that stories were made not of ideas or exciting twists of plot but of language. And not merely of pretty words and neat turns of phrase, but of systems of imagery, strategies of metaphor.

 
Michael Chabon
 

And then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.

 
John Keats
 

With equal sweetness the commissioned hours
Shed light and dew upon both weeds and flowers.
The weeds unthankful raise their vile heads high,
Flaunting back insult to the gracious sky;
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Margaret Fuller
 

Every word I never spoke dies like a spark smothered in smoke pulled from the glow of a shitty cigarette.

 
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