â James Baldwin, from If Beale Street Could Talk
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@truthwithoutwings
â James Baldwin, from If Beale Street Could Talk

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Katherine Mansfield, from a letter to John Middleton Murry (1920)
What amused him, above all, was the feel of this vanished world, a surprise more tactile than visual.
In the dim light of a men's-wear department he pulled clothes racks on to the counters, jerked open the cabinet drawers. A cornucopia of suits and shirts, shoes and hats spilled across the floor. Stripping off his woollen trousers and jerkin, like the uniform of an ignorant medieval churl, he selected a new costumeâred-white-and-blue sneakers, yellow suede trousers and a fleece-lined jacket with silver-thread embroidery and leather tassels as long as his arm.
In this modest attire he swung happily along the avenue. Thousands of cars lined the streets, their flamboyant bodywork covered with moss. Wild flowers peeped from the radiator grilles. He stopped at every tenth car and tried to start the engine.
â J. G. Ballard, The Ultimate City
Edith Wharton, from a letter to Morton Fullerton featured in The Selected Letters of Edith Wharton
Christa Wolf, Cassandra

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Of course, it is a strange sort of love, limited to the senses of touch, hearing, and smell, a love burning in a world of darkness.
â Edogawa Rampo, from âThe Human Chair,â Japanese Tales of Mystery and Imagination (Tuttle, 1956)
Rainer Maria Rilke in a letter to Lou Andreas-SalomÊ, published in Rilke and Andreas-SalomÊ: A Love Story in Letters
âŚsummer days so beautiful that the bedroom windows looking out into the blossoming garden could be left open all dayâŚ
â Arthur Schnitzler, from âThe Widower,â Night Games and Other Stories and Novellas (Ivan R. Dee, 2002)
llya Kaminsky, from "Praise", Dancing in Odessa
llya Kaminsky, "Dancing in Odessa", Dancing in Odessa

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I sink into sleep. I dream of feathers falling like snow. The sweep of wings across the sky. The pale white moon. My garden roses closed in the night. The sound of wings. A great white bird. White. I dream white. Silence and emptiness. The inside of an egg. A perfect world.
â M. Rickert, from âLeda,â Map of Dreams (Golden Gryphon Press, 2006)
In years to come, if the children catch a rheum or simply get too insistentâalways after dark, always when there is no one else for milesâhe will look at her and an understanding will pass between them. He'll light the oil lamp, disappear outside, and return with the bundle. Shell open the book and the boys will gather around her on the carpets.
"Tell again, Mama," they say, "about the magician who lives inside the whale."
"And about the nation of swans that lives among the stars."
"And about the mile-high goddess and the book that contained all things."
â Anthony Doerr, Cloud Cuckoo Land
You will freeze in place if you remain this way. You must not, dear. You have to move.
Rainer Maria Rilke, in a letter to Sidonie NĂĄdhernĂĄ, dated 1 August 1913
Fyodor Dostoevsky, from "The Peasant Marey" in The Diary of a Writer
William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

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Tove Jansson, The Summer Book
Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Louise and Frances Norcross, wr. c. Autumn 1880, from The Letters of Emily Dickinson