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“I write because I have nothing better to do in this world: I am superfluous and last in the world of men. I write because I am desperate and weary. I can no longer bear the routine of my existence and, were it not for the constant novelty of writing, I should die symbolically each day.”
― Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star

“This man's music has become part of Souren's mornings, as essential as the sun rising over the rooftops of the city. The familiar melody offers him a moment of quiet grace, and this gives him strength for the day ahead. The pianist knows nothing of this, of course. He plays only for himself. Souren wonders how the arc of the man's own days is changed by creating such beauty each morning. He watches as the pianist makes his lonely way down the street. The man looks tired, defeated. He does not play for joy, thinks Souren. He plays for survival.”
― Alex George, The Paris Hours

“Today, my heart, like the front door, stands open for the first time in months.”
― Raymond Carver, All of Us: The Collected Poems

“belong to oneself—the whole savour of life lies in that,”
― Ivan Turgenev, First Love