The Golden Notebook

by Doris Lessing

I was filled with such a dangerous delicious intoxication that I could have walked straight off the steps into the air, climbing on the strength of my own drunkenness into the stars. And the intoxication, as I knew even then, was the recklessness of infinite possibility, of danger, the secret ugly frightening pulse of war itself, of the death that we all wanted, for each other and for ourselves.

Time is the River on which the leaves of our thoughts are carried into oblivion.

Art is the Mirror of our betrayed ideals.