Category Archives: Literature

Woolf, on writing

“… there is the dictionary; there at our disposal are some half-a-million words all in alphabetical order. But can we use them? No, because words do not live in dictionaries, they live in the mind. Look once more at the dictionary. There beyond a doubt lie plays more splendid than Antony and Cleopatra; poems lovelier than the Ode to a Nightingale; novels beside which Pride and Prejudice or David Copperfield are the crude bunglings of amateurs. It is only a question of finding the right words and putting them in the right order. But we cannot do it because they do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind.”
-Virginia Woolf, taken from the only recording of her voice, a BBC radio broadcast from April 29th, 1937.
This reminds me of the saying of Michelangelo when he stated “Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.”
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Photographic Memory – by Nadia Jacobson

I didn’t write this (I wish I did) but it’s a wonderful story written by Nadia Jacobson and I love promoting talented writers.


The old man’s eyes lit up as the young man entered the living room.

“Lovely to see you again,” the old man said. “Weren’t you here just the other day?”

“Yes,” the young man lied. His chest tightened.

The old man’s head of white hair was combed and flattened, not a wisp out of place. The sofa did not cushion him; he sat bolt upright, a throwback to his army days. Within arm’s reach lay an old Polaroid camera, and on his lap a photo album. He would photograph his guests and label the pictures: name, occupation and record of acquaintance.

The old man gestured. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable. It’ll come to me in a minute.”

The young man opened his mouth.

“Don’t tell me,” the old man said, “it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

The young pursed his lips.

The old man scoured the album. Finally, his index finger came to rest on a photo, and he bent closer to read his notes. A pained expression crossed his face. He rose and spread out his arms.

“Good to see you, Son.”

“Good to see you, Dad,” the young man whispered.

* * *

via Everyday Fiction

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it’s easier to hate than to adore
it’s easier to sit than to explore
it’s easier to dismiss than to learn
it’s easier to take than to earn

it’s easier to fail than to succeed
it’s easier to rest than to achieve
it’s easier to settle than to dream
it’s easier to bleed than to heal

it’s easier to destroy than to build
it’s easier to be dumb than be skilled
it’s easier to despise than to forgive
it’s easier to die, than to live

the part that makes existence cruel,
the irony of life, the defining rule:

is this:

the harder paths teach us more about ourselves.
the most difficult choices yield the greatest results.

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