Thoughtful Spot

Psithurism: The sound of the leaves rustling as the wind blows through the trees

The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.

I can say with great certainty and absolute honesty that I did not know what love was until I knew what love was not.

By hating that person, you have lost something very sweet in yourself.

Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever.

i want a word for the almost-home. that point where the highway’s monotony becomes familiar that subway stop whose name will always wake you from day’s-end dozing that first glimpse of the skyline that you never loved until you left it behind. what do you call the exit sign you see even in your dreams? is there a name for the airport terminal you come back to, comfortably exhausted? i need a word for rounding your corner onto your street, for seeing your city on the horizon, for flying homewards down your highway. give me a word for the boundary between the world you went to see and the small one you call your own. i want a word for the moment you know you’re almost home.

I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills.

There are two types of waiting. There’s the the waiting you do for something you know is coming, sooner or later—like waiting for the 6:28 train, or the school bus, or a party where a certain handsome boy might be. And then there’s the waiting for something you don’t know is coming. You don’t even know what it is exactly, but you’re hoping for it. You’re imagining it and living your life for it. That’s the kind of waiting that makes a fist in your heart.

everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Real love has little to do with falling. It’s a climb up the rocky face of a mountain, hard work, and most people are too selfish or too scared to bother. Very few reach the critical point in their relationship that summons the attention of the light and the dark, that place where they will make a commitment to love no matter what obstacles-or temptations- appear in their path.

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living, I want to know what you ache for. It doesn’t interest me how old you are, I want to know if you are willing to risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine. It doesn’t interest me where you live or how rich you are, I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and be sweet to the ones you love. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and truly like the company you keep in the empty moments of your life.