[tove jansson em moominland midwinter] "now come spring, but not at all as he had imagined its coming. he had thought that it would deliver him from a strange and hostile world, but now it was simply a continuation of his new experiences, of something he had already conquered and made his own"

[edith wharton em summer] "she was blind and insensible to many things, and dimly knew it; but to all that was light and air, perfume and colour, every drop of blood in her responded. she loved the roughness of the dry mountain grass under her palms, the smell of the thyme into which she crushed her face, the fingering of the wind in her hair and through her cotton blouse, and the creak of the larches as they swayed to it"

[rainer maria rilke em the book of hours / and you inherit the green of vanished gardens] and you inherit the green / of vanished gardens / and the motionless blue of fallen skies, / dew of a thousand dawns, countless summers / the suns sang, and springtime to break your heart / like a young woman's letters

[mary oliver na introdução de long life] "poets must read and study, but also they must learn to tilt and whisper, shout, or dance, each in his or her own way, or we might just as well copy the old books. but, no, that would never do, for always the new self swimming around in the old world feels itself uniquely verbal. and that is just the point: how the world, moist and bountiful, calls to each of us to make a new and serious response. that's the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning. 'here you are, alive. would you like to make a comment?'"

[rainer maria rilke em the book of images / girl's melancholy] a young knight comes to mind / riding far in the full armor. / his smile was so soft and fine: / like gleaming on old ivory, / like homesickness, like a christmas snowfall / in the dark village, like turquoise / around which pearls are fashioned, / like moonlight / on a favorite book.

[mary oliver em why i wake early / luna] how quietly, / and not with any assignment from us, / or even a small hint / of understanding, / everything that needs to be done / is done.

[virginia woolf em rumo ao farol] era como se a água fluísse e fizesse com que os pensamentos estagnados em terra firme deslizassem por ela e dessem até mesmo a seus corpos uma espécie de alívio físico. primeiro, o movimento da cor inundava a baía de azul e o coração expandia-se com ele e o corpo nadava, para somente no instante seguinte ser reprimido e enregelado pela cortante escuridão das ondas inquietas.

[virginia woolf em rumo ao farol] era seu destino, sua peculiaridade, desejasse-o ou não, vir dar assim naquela ponta de terra que o mar roía vagarosamente, e ficar ali, como um pássaro marinho desgarrado e só. era seu poder, seu dom, dispersar todas as superficialidades, encolher e diminuir, parecendo mais despojado e se sentindo até fisicamente poupado, sem contudo perder nada da intensidade de sua mente. permanecendo de pé ali, naquela ponta de terra, voltado para a escuridão da ignorância humana, pensava que nada sabemos, e como o mar corrói o solo onde estamos - era este seu destino, seu dom.

[virginia wool em rumo ao farol] estranho que, quando a pessoa está sozinha, se apega às coisas, aos seres inanimados; árvores, córregos, flores. sentia que essas coisas expressavam; sentia que se transformavam nela mesma; sentia que a conheciam, e, num certo sentido, eram ela; sentia uma ternura irracional como (olhou o longo feixe penetrante) se fosse por si mesma. emergiu em espirais (e ela olhava, olhava sempre, com suas agulhas em suspenso) emergiu do fundo da sua mente, erguendo-se do seu fundo, do lago do ser da sua pessoa, uma névoa, uma noiva caminhando ao encontro do amado.

[rainer maria rilke em stories of god] then i light a lamp, and place it in a far corner, rather high, so that twilight really remains in the room, only a somewhat warmer twilight than before, a rosy twilight. and therewith my guest's face too seems more certain, warmer and by far more familiar. [...] i put my tea-glass down, rejoiced at the golden glint of the tea, slowly forgot this joy again and asked suddenly: "do you still remember God?" the stranger reflected. his eyes looked deep into the dark, and with the little points of light in the pupils they resembled two long arbored walks in a park, over which summer and sun lie luminous and broad. these too begin so, with round twilight, stretching in ever narrowing obscurity back to a distant, shimmering point - the exit on the far side into a perhaps much brighter day, while i was realizing this, he said, hesitating and as through he were only reluctantly using his voice: "yes, i still remember God".

[rainer maria rilke em stories of god] that makes me think of a certain young girl. one might say that she spent the first seventeen years of her happy life entirely in looking. her eyes were so large and so self-reliant that they themselves consumed all they received, and the life in the young creature's whole body went on independently of them, nourished by its own smooth inner stirrings. at the end of that time, however, some too-violent event disturbed this double life whose courses scarcely touched, the eyes seemed to break through, back into her inner being, and the whole weight of the outside fell through them into her dark heart, and each new day plunged so heavily into that deep, steepdown gaze that it burst like a glass in her slender breast. then the young girl grew pale, began to sicken, to be much alone, to meditate, and in the end herself sought that stillness in which thoughts are probably no longer disturbed. (...) she was drowned. in a deep, still pool, and on the surface of it many circles formed, slowly widening and growing away under the white waterlilies, so that all those bathing blossoms stirred.

[rainer maria rilke em stories of god] what er feel as spring, god sees as a fleeting little smile passing over the earth. earth seems to be remembering something; in the summer she tells every one about it, until she grows wiser in the great autumnal silence, through which she confides in those who are lonely. all the springs you and i have lived through, put together, still do not suffice to fill a single one of god's seconds. a spring, for god to notice it, may not remain in trees and on the meadows; it must somehow manifest its strength in man, for then it will proceed, as it were, not within time, but rather in eternity and in god's presence.

[rainer maria rilke em stories of god] when i stepped away from the window, the evening clouds were still there. they seemed to be waiting. should i tell them a story too? i proposed it. but they didn't even hear me. to make myself understood and to diminish the distance between us, i called out: "i am an evening cloud too". they stopped still, evidently taking a good look at me. then they stretched towards me their fine, transparent, rosy wings. that is how every clouds greet each other. they had recognized me.