“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
“Arthur had urged her to plunge her feet in a deep, swiftly running mountain stream to feel the rhythm of the water. Something about the proper young scholar suggested that he was not the free spirit he seemed to be. Georgia had kept her stockings on.”
from the book, O’Keeffe & Stieglitz, An American Romance, by Benita Eisler
he regretted everything,
and my heart still breaks–
because now,
he regrets nothing
memory is fluid
awake
it was then that she heard the old tree whisper,
and her reply was softly exhaled into the bitter winter wind
a bundle of frozen sticks and stones
a gaggle of geese in the snow
a handful of wooden tiles
and a sprinkle of glittering love
her hair was made of long ice needles
and her spirit sparkled like an emerald winter forest
snow white and soft ochre,
rusty reddish browns, steely greys
and the hard edges of the cold
spanishwoods 