I shall not die before I have once more drunk deeply of conversation with you, beloved of my heart, before I have looked upon your dear faces and poured out my soul to you once more.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (via bilinda-woolf)
I’d put this in my own eulogy.
For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.
—G.K. Chesterton, The Ballad of the White Horse, II/220-4 (via theringofwords)
[Of myth:] …can I have been unhappy, living in Paradise? What keen, tingling sunlight there was! The mere smells were enough to make a man tipsy — cut grass, dew-dabbled mosses, sweet pea autumn woods, wood burning, peat, salt water. The sense ached. I was sick with desire; that sickness better than health.
—C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy (via theringofwords)