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"Finally. An essay where we learn more about the writer's relations to the pond rather than the logistics. I greatly enjoyed this essay especially with its connection to the author's field of study. Connecting the aging of trees in the surrounding area to the age of the pool as well as disasters (war, dry/wet years, etc.) that occurred was illuminating. This is easily the best essay in the Winter section." — Jan 30, 2026 01:10PM
"Finally. An essay where we learn more about the writer's relations to the pond rather than the logistics. I greatly enjoyed this essay especially with its connection to the author's field of study. Connecting the aging of trees in the surrounding area to the age of the pool as well as disasters (war, dry/wet years, etc.) that occurred was illuminating. This is easily the best essay in the Winter section." — Jan 30, 2026 01:10PM
in this world, the man’s status was the only thing that mattered.
“The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.”
―
―
“expect sadness
like
you expect rain.
both,
cleanse you.”
―
like
you expect rain.
both,
cleanse you.”
―
“You are terrifying and strange and beautiful, someone not everyone knows how to love.”
―
―
“If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.”
― Twelfth Night
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.”
― Twelfth Night
“Lonely, ain't it?
Yes, but my lonely is mine. Now your lonely is somebody else's. Made by somebody else and handed to you. Ain't that something? A secondhand lonely.”
― Sula
Yes, but my lonely is mine. Now your lonely is somebody else's. Made by somebody else and handed to you. Ain't that something? A secondhand lonely.”
― Sula
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