I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
― Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
Once it happened, as I lay awake at night, that I suddenly spoke in verses, in verses so beautiful and strange that I did not venture to think of writing them down, and then in the morning they vanished; and yet they lay hidden within me like the hard kernel within an old brittle husk.
― Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf, trans. Basil Creighton (via proustitute)
