Ned Hayes's Blog, page 55
February 12, 2015
BOOK QUOTE:
"On most nights under the winter moon, when we have...
BOOK QUOTE:
"On most nights under the winter moon, when we have made our camp, around us echo faint sounds of that other hidden world – the one of meadow and forest in the night. The melody of whippoorwill, the cry of hunting owl, the scurrying rush of vole and chasing fox. This night, the land is empty. The silence is deep in stark and open heath, the woods carry no sound."
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
February 11, 2015
BOOK QUOTE:
“We gather wood and help Tom build his fire. As I...
BOOK QUOTE:
“We gather wood and help Tom build his fire. As I pick up spare twigs and dried bracken, I wonder how far our sounds penetrate into the black forest, and how far our shouts echo along the White Road. Night birds warble, and small creatures rustle in the snow. The darkness around us presses down, as if to listen. The music of the wind rises and falls with the swirls of the snow, the creaking of the sea of branches in the darkness above us.”
February 10, 2015
BOOK QUOTE:
“Spring grew into summer, and the rhythm of my life...
BOOK QUOTE:
“Spring grew into summer, and the rhythm of my life now included Nell. I learned that her secret lavender and mint beds were deep in the woods, out by the chuckling stream that disappeared underground. She gathered plants she needed every day, and she was as a child who gathers flowers in May.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
February 9, 2015
BOOK QUOTE:
"People come to me on waves of memory, but all of...
BOOK QUOTE:
"People come to me on waves of memory, but all of them are ghosts. The sound of a distant ocean covers me with surf, that tide that bears me back eternally into the past, back to the place where I was born. My mother took me out in our little fishing boat, out on the open water of the sea. The thrum and hiss of surf upon the shore behind us, the breaking rhythm never ceasing. My mother waited until we were out of sight of land. She waited to tell me the secret."
February 8, 2015
Cats, typewriters, lovely morning. What could be better?
Cats, typewriters, lovely morning. What could be better?
February 7, 2015
"Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I remember the...
"Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I remember the day before she died, my mother took me out in our little fishing boat, out on the open water of the sea—the thrum and hiss of surf upon the shore behind us, the rhythm never ceasing. And she taught me something: strange and secret words in a foreign tongue, a lilting singsong cadence to it."
PHOTO: niggablvd: 7:04pm / 7:13pm
February 6, 2015
The Most Majestic Libraries In The World
This is an open list...
The Most Majestic Libraries In The World
This is an open list by boredpanda, check it out and submit more!
February 5, 2015
||| What Is The Purpose Of Writing? |||
What is the purpose of...
||| What Is The Purpose Of Writing? |||
What is the purpose of writing?
I was up at 3 am this morning – partially because my 4 month old son needed his feeding, and partially because I couldn’t sleep. As I laid awake in my bed, all of these questions came to mind.
Why do we write? What is it all for? Why do people care about words? What does writing really mean to the world – if anything at all?
I then thought to myself, what causes people to move the ramblings of their imagination from their head, to paper, and then out into the world? We must somewhere inside feel that our words are going to make a difference, stir up controversy, or draw attention.
Out of the billions of thoughts that we have thought, only a small few have made it to the pages of our novels, our memoirs, posts, articles, and our letters. But why have any of those words at all, made it from the recesses of our mind out into the world?
February 4, 2015
BOOK QUOTE:
"Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I...
BOOK QUOTE:
"Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I remember the day before she died, my mother took me out in our little fishing boat, out on the open water of the sea—the thrum and hiss of surf upon the shore behind us, the rhythm never ceasing. And she taught me something: strange and secret words in a foreign tongue, a lilting singsong cadence to it."
