The things that make us happy make us wise.
‘Love is a myth.’
‘Love is a myth,’ Grandfather Trout said. ‘Like summer.’
‘In winter,’Grandfather Trout said, ‘summer is a myth. A report, a rumor. Not to be believed in. Get it? Love is a myth. So is summer.’
Learning to decipher words had only added to the pleasures of holding spines and turning pages, measuring the journey to the end with a thumb-riffle, poring over frontispieces. Books! Opening with a crackle of old glue, releasing perfume; closing with a solid thump.
Stories last longer: but only by becoming only stories.”
There was after all no mystery in the end of love, no mystery but the mystery of love itself, which was large certainly but as real as grass, as natural and unaccountable as bloom and branch and their growth.
The universe is Time’s body.
The tears of those who never cry, the calm, the levelheaded ones, are terrible to see.
But life is wakings-up, all unexpected, all surprising.
(Little, Big by John Crowley)