Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.— Mark Z. Danielewski
The most romantic Mark Z. Danielewski quotes that will be huge advantage for your personal development
Keep true to the rare music in your heart, to the marvelous and unique form that is and shall always be nothing else but you. Keep to that and you can do no wrong, which I realize is easier said than done.
Have no fear, you will find your way. It's in your bones. It's in your soul.
Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience.
It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.
Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.
Maturity, one discovers, has everything to do with the acceptance of ‘not knowing.
Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive.
Little solace comes to those who grieve when thoughts keep drifting as walls keep shifting and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind.
We all create stories to protect ourselves.
Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.
...she still cannot resist looking out the window every couple of minutes. The sound of a passing truck causes her to glance away. Even if there is no sound, the weight of a hundred seconds always turns her head.
Her smile, I'm sure, burnt Rome to the ground.
My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms.
I took my morning walk, I took my evening walk, I ate something, I thought about something, I wrote, I napped and dreamt something too, and with all that something, I still have nothing because so much of sum’thing has always been and always will be you.
This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.
Even the brightest magnesium flare can do little against such dark except blind the eyes of the one holding it. Thus one craves what by seeing one has in fact not seen.
Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.
The ruminations are mine, let the world be yours.
Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad inreparable way.
Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.
For some reason, you will no longer be the person you believed you once were.
You'll detect slow and subtle shifts going on all around you, more importantly shifts in you. Worse, you'll realize it's always been shifting, like a shimmer of sorts, a vast shimmer, only dark like a room. But you won't understand why or how.
Heart may still be the fire in hearth but I'm suddenly too cold to continue, and besides, there's no hearth here anyway and it's the end of June. Thursday. Almost noon. And all the buttons on my corduroy coat are gone. I don't know why. I'm sorry Hailey. I don't know what to do.
And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.
He [Zampano] probably would of insisted on corrections and edits, he was his own harshest critic, but I've come to believe errors, especially written errors, are often the only markers left by a solitary life: to sacrifice them is to lose the angels of personality, the riddle of a soul. In this case a very old soul. A very old riddle.
No gunfire, famine, or flies. Just lots of toothpaste, gardening and people stuff.
Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.
Scientists estimate the universe unfolded from its state of infinite destiny* - a moment commonly referred to as "the big bang" - approximately 1.3-2 x 10^10 years ago. *Typo: "destiny" should read "density.
Do not wake me from this slumber, but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.
Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it.
Why did god create a dual universe? So he might say ‘Be not like me.
I am alone.' And it might be heard.
House of Leaves is certainly about the unsettling nature of fear - and it was my aim to address that - but its also about recovering from fear.
Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.
Here then - the after math of meaning. A liftime finished between the space of two frames.
No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.
...life's big. If you can't fix it, give it a spin.
Beautiful women are always drawn to men they think will keep them beautiful.
...and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don't mean much to anyone except to the one who can't take any of them along.
I believe the structure of 'House of Leaves' is far more difficult to explain than it is to read. And while I'd like to lay claim to some extraordinary act of originality, truth is I'm only taking advantage of capabilities inherent in everyone.
Very soon he will vanish completely in the wings of his own wordless stanza.
[ ] but his stanza is not completely empty [ * ]
What miracle is this? This giant tree.
It stands ten thousand feet high But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands. Its roots must hold the sky.
I'm all soils west when the Earth lets go. I'm a thousand Julys.
Explanation is not half as strong as experience but experience is not half as strong as experience and understanding
One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.
Absolutely nothing visible to the eye provides a reason for or even evidence of those terrifying shifts which can in a matter of moments reconstitute a simple path into an extremely complicated one.
Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and loss is too empty to share...
I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real
To read" actually comes from the Latin reri "to calculate, to think" which is not only the progenitor of "read" but of "reason" as well, both of which hail from the Greek arariskein "to fit." Aside from giving us "reason," arariskein also gives us an unlikely sibling, Latin arma meaning "weapons." It seems that "to fit" the world or to make sense of it requires either reason or arms.
So often I wonder whether it is my right to capitalize, as I feel, so often, on the grief of others. But then I justify, in my own particular thoughts, by feeling that I can contribute a little to the understanding of what others are going through; then there is reason for doing it.
The thread has snapped. No sound even to mark the breaking let alone the fall. That long anticipated disintegration, when the darkest angel of all, the horror beyond all horrors, sits at last upon my chest, permanently enfolding me in its great covering wings, black as ink, veined in Bees' purple. A creature without a voice. A voice without a name. As immortal as my life. Come here at long last to summon the wind.