• Her eyes are classic novels and poetry. (Isaac Marion)
• She’s so hurt. She is one who does not know what she suffers from, or why, or how to overcome it. She is all unconscious, motion, music. She is afraid to see, to analyze her nature. She thinks that nature just is and that nothing can be done about it. She would have never invented ships to conquer the sea, machines to create light where there was darkness. She would never have harnessed water power, electric power. She is like the primitive. She thinks it is all beyond her power. She accepts chaos. She suffers mutely. (Anaïs Nin, Ladders To Fire)
• Faerie contains many things besides elves and fays and besides dwarfs, witches, trolls, giants or dragons; it holds the seas, the sun, the moon, the sky; and the earth, and all things that are one in it: tree and bird, water and stone, wine and bread, and ourselves, mortal men, when we are enchanted. (Tolkien)
• A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane’s and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird’s, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face. (James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man)
• I look at [books] as a child looks at cakes - with glittering eyes and a watering mouth, imagining the pleasure that awaits him. (Elizabeth Gaskel)
• To know that you are a prisoner of your mind, that you live in an imaginary world of your own creation, is the dawn of wisdom. (Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj)
• Silence is beautiful, not awkward. The human tendency to be afraid of something beautiful is awkward. (Elliott Kay)
• I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all alone. (Henri Barbusse)
• I began to draw an invisible boundary between myself and other people. No matter who I was dealing with. I maintained a set distance, carefully monitoring the person’s attitude so that they wouldn’t get any closer. I didn’t easily swallow what other people told me. My only passions were books and music. (Haruki Murakami)
• She wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes. She spoke to no one. She spent hours on the riverbank and had midnight swims. (Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things.)
• My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French. (Vladimir Nabokov)
• Stars got tangled in her hair whenever she played in the sky. (Laini Taylor)
• Raindrops are like fairy whispers.
• Some people are uncomfortable with silences. Not me. I’ve never cared much for call and response. Sometimes I will think of something to say and then I ask myself: is it worth it? And it just isn’t. (Miranda July, No One Belongs Here More Than You)
• You are a minute of quiet in a loud shouting world. (Gabriel Gadfly)
• Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum. (Vincent van Gogh)
• What we have here is a dreamer, someone completely out of touch with reality. When she jumped, she probably thought she could fly. (The Virgin Suicides)
• The artistic life is a long, lovely suicide. (Oscar Wilde)
• I like the sea: we understand one another. It is always yearning, sighing for something it cannot have; and so am I. (Greta Garbo)
• She may have looked normal on the outside, but once you’d seen her handwriting you knew she was deliciously complicated inside. ( Jeffrey Eugenides, The Marriage Plot)
• She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves (Virginia Woolf, The Years)
• How beautiful would it be to find someone who’s in love with your mind.
• How beautiful would it be to find someone who’s in love with your mind. (Ibn al-Qayyim)
• Strangeness is an ingredient necessary in beauty. (Charles Baudelaire)
• “I love winter,” he remarked one day. Why? she asked. “It gives me an excuse to be cold and distant, without anyone caring,” he replied. (Fragment 21)
• I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of ‘thinking’ and ‘enjoying’ what they call ‘living’, I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds. (Jack Kerouac)
• You’ll meet her. She’s very pretty, even though sometimes she’s sad for many days at a time. You’ll see, when she smiles, you’ll love her. (Pan’s Labryrinth)
• There is nothing prettier than a city at 5 AM with its empty streets and cold wind…
• A mermaid has not an immortal soul, nor can she obtain one unless she wins the love of a human being. On the power of another hangs her eternal destiny. (Hans Christian Andersen)
• I’ve always had a terrible weakness for beautiful but sad things. (Sylvain Reynard, Gabriel’s Inferno)
• there is a particular sweetness in being alone because you do not have to be anything or say anything or try to feel anything you normally wouldn’t. but sometimes, perhaps when it is raining at 1:52 am, you will feel this wild ache—this longing, to want to try and be something or feel something for someone—for anyone ((i.t.) - this is what it is to be alone)
• "I want to live simply. I want to sit by the window when it rains and read books I’ll never be tested on. I want to paint because I want to, not because I’ve got something to prove. I want to listen to my body, fall asleep when the moon is high and wake up slowly, with no place to rush off to. I want not to be governed by money or clocks or any of the artificial restraints that humanity imposes on itself. I just want to be, boundless and infinite.

February:

• I want to live simply. I want to sit by the window when it rains and read books I’ll never be tested on. I want to paint because I want to, not because I’ve got something to prove. I want to listen to my body, fall asleep when the moon is high and wake up slowly, with no place to rush off to. I want not to be governed by money or clocks or any of the artificial restraints that humanity imposes on itself. I just want to be, boundless and infinite.
• Awake, my dear! Be kind to your sleeping heart. Take it out into the vast fields of light, and let it breathe.
• I think he falls for Jane because she represents innocence to him. He desperately wants to get back to that, and she is that, she is innocence. She is naive she does not have all of this baggage, she is sort of … there is something pristine about her and unspoiled, and also, lonely, I think he identifies he is a loner, he becomes a loner, he has shot himself from the world, and she is a similar sort to him, and she is very… there is an honesty about her that I think he admires, and he responds to and finds attractive. _(Toby Stephens)
• My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness. (Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters)
• Melancholy is a sensual pleasure that is deliberately provoked. How many people shut themselves away to make themselves sadder, or to weep beside a stream, or choose a sentimental book! We are constantly building and unbuilding ourselves. (Gustave Flaubert, from Intimate Notebook, 1840-1841 (Doubleday & Co., 1967)

March:

• Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky.
• The taste of her skin and the smell of her hair were just as intoxicating as he remembered them; a combination of wild herbs and the scent of the air after a Summer rain.
• She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox’s tongue. She tastes like hope. (Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke and Bone)
• Come quickly, I am drinking the stars! (Dom Pérignon, after inventing champagne)
• I think she’s special. She doesn’t need anyone. Like that’s the thing. Even if we were together, she wouldn’t really belong to me. She doesn’t belong to anything. She’s off in her own world… (Childish Gambino)
• There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing. There is the silence that comes with morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city. There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same. There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt. There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys, or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work. This kind of silence can speak. Its voice may be melancholy, but it is not always so; for the chair may have been left by a laughing child or the last notes of the piano may have been raucous and gay. Whatever the mood or the circumstance, the essence of its quality may linger in the silence that follows. It is a soundless echo. (West with the Night, Beryl Markham)
• Yes, I do enjoy walking at night. The world’s more to my liking then, not so loud, not so fast, not so crowded, and a good deal more mysterious. (Cornelia Funke)
• Maybe the wolf is in love with the moon, and each month it cries for a love it will never touch.
• The wind is the moon’s imagination wandering. — (Saul Williams)_
• You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true. (Pablo Neruda)
• She lives the poetry she cannot write. (Oscar Wilde)
• You cannot pretend to read a book. Your eyes will give you away. So will your breathing. A person entranced by a book simply forgets to breathe. The house can catch alight and a reader deep in a book will not look up until the wallpaper is in flames. (Lloyd Jones)
• How can you feel so lonely at night when the moon, and thousands of stars are shining down on you? (Awakened Vibration)
• The cure for anything is salt water. Sweat, tears, or the ocean. (Isak Dinesen)
• He who delights in solitude is either a wild beast or a god. (Friedrich Nietzsche)
• I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; L fear; I think strange things which I dare not confess to my own soul.
• The moon cried tears of starlight. (6-Word Story)
• Study me as much as you like, you will never know me. For I differ a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes, and see me as I see myself. Because I have chosen to dwell in a place you can’t see. (Rumi)
• If someday the moon calls you by your name don’t be surprised,Because evey night I tell her about you. ( Shahrazad al-Khalij)
• If only the stars contained me. (Czeslaw Milosz, from What Does It Mean)
• Live to the point of tears. (Albert Camus)
• I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women that I have loved; all the cities I have visited. (Jorge Luis Borges)
• My soul is in the sky. (William Shakespeare)
• Don't you wish you could take a single childhood memory and blow it up into a bubble and live inside it forever?
• She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible, unseen; unknown […] (Virginia Woolf, from Mrs. Dalloway)
• _I know exactly what I would do with immortality: I would read every book in the library. (Mark Jason Dominus)
• I like people who have a sense of individuality. I love expression and anything awkward and imperfect, because that’s natural and that’s real. (Marc Jacobs)
• I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses. (Friedrich Nietzsche)
• Obsessed by a fairy tale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace. (Eugene O’Neill)
• Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows. (Zelda Fitzgerald)
• I’m a paradox. I want to be happy, but I think of things that make me sad. I’m lazy, yet I’m ambitious. I don’t like myself, but I also love who I am. I say I don’t care, but I really do. I crave attention, but reject it when it comes my way. I’m a conflicted contradiction. If I can’t figure myself out, there’s no way anyone else has.
• I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come. (Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar)
• She’s got the whole dark forest living inside of her. (Tom Waits)
• I sit before flowers hoping they will train me in the art of opening up, I stand on mountain tops believing that avalanches will teach me to let go I know nothing but I am here to learn. (Shane Koyczan)
• I’m addicted to silence and privacy; I wallow in it. (Valorie Wesley)
• I have a very childlike rage, and a very childlike loneliness. (Richey Edwards)
• I am a dreamer; I have so little real life that I look upon such moments as this now, as so rare, that I cannot help going over such moments again in my dreams. I shall be dreaming of you all night, a whole week, a whole year. (Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights)
• Melancholy is the happiness of being sad. (Victor Hugo)
• I felt a though i were a music box in want for winding. Yes, as though i were a music box and the tune were my life, playing more and more slowly with every passing day. Finally, not even i could recognize it. the notes weere stretched too far apart. They were no longer notes, they were plinks. I wound down to a plink.
• I lived in books ore than i lived in anywhere else.
• She was a living reverie for me: the mere sight of her sparked an almost infinite range of fantasy, from Greek to Goth, from vulgar to divine. ( Donna Tartt, The Secret History)
• Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough. (Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit)
• He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words. (Elbert Hubbard)
• But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home To a leaky castle across the sea,To lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, And hear the nightingale, and long for me. (Short Story, Edna St. Vincent Millay)
• Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. (William Butler Yeats, The Collected Poems)
• I wish I could live underwater. Maybe then my skin would absorb the sea’s consoling silence. (Cristina Garcia)
• May you touch fireflies and stars, dance with fairies, and talk to the man in the moon. May you grow up with love and gracious hearts and always know how loved you are.
• I’m one of those people that you have to keep your eye on or I’ll wander off into the woods and forget to come back. (Jack White)
• I like the sea: we understand one another. It is always yearning, sighing for something it cannot have; and so am I. (Greta Garbo)
• If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating. (Sylvia Plath)
• "Good-night, my" _ He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me. (Jane Eyre)
• My tears are like the quiet drift Of petals from some magic rose; And all my grief flows from the rift Of unremembered skies and snows.I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream. (Dylan Thomas; Clown in the Moon)
• If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers… (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry)
• He carries stars in his pockets because he knows she fears the dark. Whenever sadness pays her a visit, he paints galaxies on the back of her hands.
• The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night; yet queenly she looked, and thought and knowledge were in her glance, as of one who has known many things that the years bring. (The Lord of The Rings (Arwen))
• I have, as it were, my own sun and moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. (Henry David Thoreau)
• The moon is a loyal companion. it never leaves. It's always there , watching, steadfast, knowing usin our light and dark moments. Changing forever just as we do. Everyday it's a differnt version of itself. sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon aunderstands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfectiones.
• The odd thing about people who had many books was how they always wanted more. (Patricia A. McKillip, The Bell at Sealey Head)
• I have inside me the winds, the deserts, the oceans, the stars, and everything created in the universe. We were all made by the same hand, and we have the same soul.
• They’d like to see through me, but nothing is more opaque than absolute transparency. (Margaret Atwood, from Helen Of Troy Does Counter Dancing)
• Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries. (Theodore Roethke)
• Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, For I would ride with you upon the wind, Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame. (William Butler Yeats, The Land of Heart’s Desire)
• The prince fought valiantly. He slayed the dragon. The princess cried for days. She loved that dragon. (The stories fairytales don’t tell)
• Garden fairies come at dawn, Bless the flowers then they’re gone.
• There is pleasure in the pathless woods,There is rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea and the music in its roar I love not man the less, but Nature more (Lord Byron)
• Solitude is the soil in which genius is planted, creativity grows, and legends bloom; faith in oneself is the rain that cultivates a hero to endure the storm, and bare the genesis of a new world, a new forest. (Mike Norton)
• No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness. (Aristotle)
• I do believe in fairies. I do. I do. (Peter Pan)
• If you’re looking for me: I will be located near insanity. More precisely on the thin line between insanity and panic. Just around the corner of mortal agony. Not far from absurdity and idiocy. (Bernd das Brot, German philosopher)
• I wanted to be calm, like a mound with all its cities destroyed, and tranquil, like a full cemetery. (Yehuda Amichai, from I Have Become Very Hairy)
• I have sea foam in my veins, I understand the language of waves. (Le Testament d’Orphée)
• Sometimes, I sit alone under the stars and think of the galaxies inside my heart, and truly wonder if anyone will ever want to make sense of all that I am. (Christopher Poindexter)
• I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists. One where my heart is full. My body loved. And my soul understood.
• I live in another world, and if you come near me, I will wrap you in it like a cloak of stars.
• The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addled, crippled by procrastination and consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing and soul-crushing inadequacy. And that’s on a good day. (Robert DeNir)
• While they’re still alive, people can become ghosts. (Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore)
• Understand, I’ll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks. I’ll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows, with only this one dream: You come too. (Ranier Maria Rilke)
• It was pleasant to take a hot drink up to her room and have it beside her as she sat in her silent room reading in the empty house in the afternoons. The books transported her into new worlds and introduced her to amazing people who lived exciting lives. She went on olden-day sailing ships with Joseph Conrad. She went to Africa with Ernest Hemingway and to India with Rudyard Kipling. She travelled all over the world while sitting in her little room in an English village. (Roald Dahl ~ Matilda)
• This is what i believe. "That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest."

April:

• Moonlight is sculpture; sunlight is painting. Hawthorne, American Note-Books, 1838
• He kissed her. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn’t have done anything else. He needed that breath she was holding. It belonged to him, and he wanted it back. Tessa Dare
• I only want to walk a little longer in the cold blessing of the rain, and lift my face to it. Kim Addonizio, from New Year’s Day
• She was a phantom of delight. When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition sent, to be a moment's ornament. William Wordsworth, “She Was a Phantom of Delight”
• Anyone can love a rose, but it takes a great deal to love a leaf. It’s ordinary to love the beautiful, but it’s beautiful to love the ordinary.
• The girl looked around the bookshop and took a deep breath. “That smell, I just love it, don’t you? Out of the Easy by Ruta Sepetys
• She never utters a sound even when she is crying, and that makes me a little sad. doesn't seem right. When you cry, people should hear you. The world should stop.
• There comes a time when you have to choose between turning the page and closing the book. Josh Jameson
• I live on the edge of a sleepy soul, a moist rose, and an infinite lilac sky beneath my chin. M. Melia, The Unravelling Travelogue.
• I stepped into the bookshop and breathed in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had ever thought of bottling. Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Angel’s Game
• At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of both earth and rain.
• A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in - what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars. Victor Hugo
• Sometimes when you open a book, time stops. Ned Vizzini
• Poets are never young, in one sense. Their delicate ear hears the far-off whispers of eternity, which coarser souls must travel towards for scores of years before their dull sense is touched by them. Oliver Wendell Holmes
• You seem intelligent and kind, and sensitive to both beauty and sadness. You are pretty, but you do not focus on that as your most important quality. You are like the shy, quiet young girl who lives next door. Who thinks a lot, and likes to read, and dreams of something she does not yet know.
• Once upon a time there were four girls. One was pretty. One was clever. One charming, and one…one was mysterious. But they were all damaged, you see. Something not right about the lot of them. Bad blood. Big dreams. Oh, I left that part out. Sorry, that should have come before. They were all dreamers, these girls. A Great and Terrible Beauty
• There may be fairies at the bottom of the garden. There is no eveidence for it, but you can't prove that there aren't any, so whouldn't we be agnostic with respect of fairies?
• I’m half child half ancient. Bjork on her age
• At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon. F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
• I hope that someday, somebody wants to hold you for twenty minutes straight, and that’s all they do. They don’t pull away. They don’t look at your face. They don’t try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms, without an ounce of selfishness in it.
• It’s not that I literally think I’m a faerie. It’s just that I feel so different from most people. And this idea of a race living underground in caverns, spending all their days dancing and playing the fiddle and eating flowers and reciting poetry and sharing their dreams, that to me sounds much more real than the way people live in this world, hating and fighting and wanting and hurting. (Violet & Claire, by Francesca Lia Block)
• “Mademoiselle is a fairy,” he said, whispering mysteriously.” (Jane Eyre)