“It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.”
― Don DeLillo, White Noise
Louise Gluck, The White Lilies,
‘…the evening turns
cold with their terror: it
could all end, it is capable
of devastation. All, all
can be lost, through scented air
the narrow columns
uselessly rising, and beyond,
a churning sea of poppies–‘
Virginia Woolf, To the Light House
“…the problem of space remained, she thought, taking up her brush again. It glared at her. The whole mass of the picture was poised upon that weight. Beautiful and bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly’s wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron.”
The authors above were part of the list that Michael Cunningham wanted to take with him, in case he was ever marooned on a desert island.
I remember his brilliant book, “The Hours,” and that stunning movie inspired by that book. I had watched the movie first and then gone back to the book.