This is where my inky right brain indulges in visual and written inspiration, muses on the writing craft ... and sometimes spills secrets.

 

It’s sublime, to go into another room and make pictures. It’s magic time, where all your weaknesses of character, the blemishes of your personality, whatever else torments you, fades away, just doesn’t matter. You’re doing the one thing you want to do and you do it well and you know you do it well, and… you’re happy. The whole promise is to do the work, sitting down at the drawing table, turning on the radio, and I think, what a transcendent life this is, that I’m doing everything I want to do. In that moment, I feel like I’m a lucky man.

I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

Dubliners: James Joyce (via recycled-words)

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

Jorge Luis Borges (submitted by lets-burn-brighter-than-the-sun)

(Source: how-novelistic)