#lighthouse

I don't know what happened between the two of you. I don't know if it can be forgiven. The hardest thing always is to forgive yourself. ↗

— Antonia Michaelis

#lighthouse-keeper #mr-knaake #forgiveness

Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships. ↗

— Charles Simic

#constructing #empty #i #inside #lighthouse

The boat was vacuum-packed with Albanians, four generations to a family: great-grandmother, air-dried like a chilli pepper, deep red skin and a hot temper; grandmother, all sun-dried tomato, tough, chewy, skin split with the heat; getting the kids to rub olive oil into her arms; mother, moist as a purple fig, open everywhere - blouse, skirt, mouth, eyes, a wide-open woman, lips licking the salt spray flying from the open boat. Then there were the kids, aged four and six, a couple of squirs, zesty as lemons. ↗

— Jeanette Winterson

#age

That people should love like this, that Mr. Bankes should feel this for Mrs. Ramsay (she glanced at him musing) was helpful, was exalting. ↗

— Virginia Woolf

#love

A lighthouse is not interested in who gets its light! It just gives it without thinking! Giving light is its nature! ↗

— Mehmet Murat ildan

#nature

Metaphysics is a dark ocean without shores or lighthouse, strewn with many a philosophic wreck. ↗

— Immanuel Kant

#lighthouse #many #metaphysics #ocean #philosophic

...so now, Mrs. Ramsay thought, she could return to that dream land, that unreal but fascinating place, the Manning's drawing-room at Marlow twenty years ago; where one moved about without haste or anxiety, for there was no future to worry about. She knew what had happened to them, what to her. It was like reading a good book again, for she knew the end of that story, since it had happened twenty years ago, and life, which shot down even from this dining-room table in cascades, heaven knows where, was sealed up there, and lay, like a lake, placidly between its banks. ↗

— Virginia Woolf

#life

She had some hidden reason of her own for attaching great importance to this choosing what her mother was to wear. What was the reason, Mrs. Ramsay wondered, standing still to let her clasp the necklace she had chosen, divining, through her own past, some deep, some buried, some quite speechless feeling that one had for one's mother at Rose's age. Like all feelings felt for oneself, Mrs. Ramsay thought, it made one sad. It was so inadequate, what one could give in return; and what Rose felt was quite out of proportion to anything she actually was. And Rose would grow up; and Rose would suffer, she supposed, with these deep feelings, and she said she was ready now... ↗

— Virginia Woolf

#age

...(for the setting of her beauty was always that - hasty, but apt)... ↗

— Virginia Woolf

#beauty

With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past. ↗

— Virginia Woolf

#change