"And when, in front of him, a grinding whine came from behind the hump of the side street, swelling to full growth when it had overcome the grade, distending the night, already illuminating the descent with the ovals of yellowish light, about to hurdle downward— then, as if it were a dance, as if that ripple of the dance had carried him to stage center, under this growing, grinning, megathundering mass, his partner in a crashing cracovienne, this thundering iron thing, this instantaneous cinema of dismemberment— that’s it, drag me under, tear at my frailty— I’m traveling flattened, on my smacked-down face— hey, you’re spinning me, don’t rip me to pieces— you’re shredding me, I’ve had enough— zigzag gymnastics of lightning, spectrogram of a thunderbolt’s split seconds—and the film of life had burst."
Vladimir Nabokov, from The Enchanter (trans. Dmitri Nabokov)
"Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play… I tell you, that it is on things like these that our lives depend."
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (via larmoyante)