I’m not okay, you’re not okay, and that’s okay.
William Sloane Coffin
painted by Maurice Denis
When it rains, even the most insignificant puddle is a map of the universe.
— Simon Van Booy, Love Begins in Winter
Fiction reveals truths that reality obscures.
馬鹿につける薬はない Baka ni tsukeru kusuri wa nai.
(There is no medicine that cures stupidity.)
— Japanese Proverb
Open a book this minute and start reading. Don’t move until you’ve reached page fifty. Until you’ve buried your thoughts in print. Cover yourself with words. Wash yourself away. Dissolve. — Carol Shields
(Portrait of Katie Lewis (detail) by Edward Coley Burne-Jones, 1886)
Life has an inside as well as an outside. Consumer culture directs all resources and attention to life on the outside. What happens to the inner life? Art is never a luxury because it stimulates and responds to the inner life. We are badly out of balance. I don’t think of art / creativity as a substitute for anything else. I see it as a powerful expression of our humanity - and on the side of humanity under threat. If we say art is a luxury, we might as well say that being human is a luxury.
— Jeanette Winterson
Hold up your hands before your eyes. You are looking at the hands of God. — Rabbi Lawrence Kushner
(Study of Hands by Leonardo da Vinci, 1452-1519)
I love science, and it pains me to think that so many are terrified of the subject or feel that choosing science means you cannot also choose compassion, or the arts, or be awed by nature. Science is not meant to cure us of mystery, but to reinvent and reinvigorate it.
For I regard memory not as a phenomenon preserving one thing and losing another merely by chance, but as a power that deliberately places events in order or wisely omits them. Everything we forget about our own lives was really condemned to oblivion by an inner instinct long ago.
Stories are like spiders, with all they long legs, and stories are like spiderwebs, which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew, and in the elegant way that they connect to one another, each to each. — Neil Gaiman, Anansi Boys