The past is a curious thing. It’s with you all the time. I suppose an hour never passes without your thinking of things that happened ten or twenty years ago, and yet most of the time it’s got no reality, it’s just a set of facts that you’ve learned, like a lot of stuff in a history book. Then some chance sight or sound or smell, especially smell, sets you going, and the past doesn’t merely come back to you, you’re actually IN the past. It was like that at this moment.”
― George Orwell, Coming Up for Air

I read my books with diligence, and mounting skills and gathering certainty.
I read the way a person might swim, to save his or her life.

I wrote that way too.

—Mary Oliver, from “Staying Alive,” in Blue Pastures (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1995)

(Source: growing-orbits, via apoetreflects)

I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.
— Jack Kerouac

(via journalofanobody)