“It seems to me that almost everything is a waste of time… I can’t see the point in learning to solve useless problems, or subtracting turnips from turnips, or knowing where Ethiopia is or how to spell February.” And, since no one bothered to explain otherwise, he regarded the process of seeking knowledge as the greatest waste of time of all.
from The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster, 1961
fragrant tiny lillies
flowers inside and flowers outside
this book: Charleston: A Bloomsbury House & Garden
by Quentin Bell & Virginia Nicholson
mountain views on southern porches
fragile mushrooms in the rain
“Snowflakes are not made for solitude; each, with outflung arms, tangles and meshes with its neighbor; over time, they compress, become ice. But ice is mutable, even in the deepest cold. Inside a glacier, pressure and affinity will melt ice at temperatures far below freezing, so that two pieces, in contact with each other, melt and refreeze as one.”
from the book, Under a Pole Star by Stef Penney
this book: The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady by Edith Holden
jameson in a small glass
spring flowers on the counter
snow storms in the afternoon
this song: Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me (R&B version sung by Gladys Knight & the Pips)
mallards at the marsh
coffee with friends
rainy walks in thick fog
small hawks hunting mourning doves
candles in frosted jars
orange and clover tea with sourdough toast
this book: Virginia Woolf by Alexandra Harris
and this book: Under a Pole Star by Stef Penney
bangles made of amber glass
daydreams of dogwood blossoms
“Increasingly, he bunked off school to paint out of doors. Claude hated school. He resented being trapped inside a building and told what to do, even for a few hours a day.”
from the book, The Private Lives of Impressionists, by Sue Roe
“I bury my face in the pillow that smells of must and damp. Its cotton slip is as cold as marble. It is only here, alone and in the dark, that I can allow those thoughts some rein. Thoughts that come from nowhere, from dreams, taking me delirious hostage. I long for sleep again, because only in sleep can I slip the bonds of what is possible and right. But as I have found so often in life, what you truly long for eludes you.”
from the book, The Tenderness of Wolves, by Stef Penney
