I have an idea that the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in without disgust is the beauty which now and then men create out of the chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead. Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art. W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil
You might as well ask an artist to explain his art, or ask a poet to explain his poem. It defeats the purpose. The meaning is only clear thorough the search. Rick Riordan
Weird is a side effect of awesome. Rebekah Crane, The Upside of Falling Down Tags: weirdnes
Well, writing novels is incredibly simple: an author sits down…and writes.
It is certainly true that all beliefs and all myths are worthy of a respectful hearing. It is not true that all folk beliefs are equally valid – if we’re talking not about an internal mindset, but about understanding of the external reality. Carl Sagan, The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark
You call a star a star, and say it is just a ball of matter moving on a mathematical course. But that is merely how you see it. By so naming things and describing them you are only inventing your own terms about them. And just as speech is invention about objects and ideas, so myth is invention about truth. Humphrey Carpenter, J.R.R. Tolkien: A Biography
Writing is a job, a talent, but it’s also the place to go in your head. It is the imaginary friend you drink your tea with in the afternoon. Ann Patchett, Truth & Beauty
When we lose our myths we lose our place in the universe. Madeleine L’Engle
First forget inspiration. Habit is more dependable. Habit will sustain you whether you’re inspired or not. Habit will help you finish and polish your stories. Inspiration won’t. Habit is persistence in practice. Octavia Butler, Bloodchild and Other Stories
This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me. Kafka Franz, Diaries, 1910-1923
Everyday Strange 