"He ate his breakfast with his back against the tree, reading the magazine while he ate. He had previously read but one story; he began now upon the second one, reading the magazine straight through as though it were a novel. Now and then he would look up from the page, chewing, into the sunshot leaves which arched the ditch. 'Maybe I have already done it,' he thought. 'Maybe it is no longer now waiting to be done'. It seemed to him that he could see the yellow day opening peacefully on before him, like a corridor, an arras, into a still chiaroscuro without urgency. It seemed to him that as he sat there the yellow day contemplated him drowsily, like a prone and somnolent yellow cat. Then he read again. He turned the pages in steady progression, though now and then he would seem to linger upon one page, one line, perhaps one word. He would not look up at them. He would not move, apparently arrested and held immobile by a single word which had perhaps not impacted, his whole being suspended by the single trivial combination of letters in quiet and sunny space, so that hanging motionless and without physical weight he seemed to watch the slow flowing of time beneath him, thinking All I wanted was peace thinking, 'She ought not to started praying over me.'"
-excerpt from William Faulkner's Light in August
When something so picturesque is put into words, it sweeps across the soul -- all the while knowing it has permanently imprinted its brushstrokes of simplistic beauty upon you.
The faint sweetness of summer nights puts me at ease.
"It was berry harvest time in Winesburg and upon the station platform men and boys loaded the boxes of red, fragrant berries into two express cars that stood upon the siding. A June moon was in the sky, although in the west a storm threatened, and no street lamps were lighted. In the dim light the figures of the men standing upon the express truck and pitching the boxes in at the doors of the cars were but dimly discernible. Upon the iron railing that protected the station lawn sat other men. Pipes were lighted. Village jokes went back and forth. Away in the distance a train whistled and the men loading the boxes into the cars worked with renewed activity."
-excerpt from Sherwood Anderson's "The Thinker," Winesburg, Ohio
This goddess does no wrong, further exemplified by her cover of Thin Lizzy's "Still in Love with You." She adds a sense of soul...of passion...a personable touch that no matter what the circumstance, you can somehow relate to it. Timeless.
After hearing "Nothing But a Miracle" for the first time, I was hooked on Diane Birch. Her voice seemed to transcend me to a different era, one where music is the only means of communication from soul to soul. Recently while mindlessly applying to jobs, I put on Bible Belt and let the whole album play through. When this particular song came to an end, I scooped up the remote and replayed it again. And again. And again. As she strikes the opening keys on the organ-like piano, it blankets a calming sensation over me. Her voice, well, it speaks for itself. I give you "Ariel."
"I've been cryin' on the pillow where you lie For the past, for the future and everything in between. Oh, does it hurt more to lose you or hurt more to love you baby? Or does it hurt more to look at you on my screen?
Am I a fool to think I know you well? Do we see the same stars? Cause sometimes, baby, those green eyes just don't tell."
