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Neil Gaiman
“The ocean was back in the pond, and the only knowledge I was left with, as if I had woken from a dream on a summer's day, was that it had not been long ago since I had known everything.
I looked at Lettie in the moonlight. "Is that how it is for you? I asked.
"Is what how it is for me?"
"Do you still know everything, all the time?"
...She wrinkled her nose. "Everybody did. I told you. It's nothing special, knowing how things work. And you really do have to give it all up if you want to play."
"To play what?"
"This," she said. She waved at the house and the sky and the impossible full moon and the skeins and the shawls and clusters of bright stars.”
Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

Neil Gaiman
“You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live.”
Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 6: Fables & Reflections

Neil Gaiman
“Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that witches are often betrayed by their appetites; dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always; hearts can be well-hidden, and you can betray them with your tongue. (from "Instructions")”
Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders

Haruki Murakami
“Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.”
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Vladimir Nabokov
“Toska - noun /ˈtō-skə/ - Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness.

"No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”
Vladimir Nabokov

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