Madredeus ,Na estrada de santiago , Luar na Lubre Chove en santiago

Ana Vidovic ,Altiplanos ,Pierre Bensusan

Mary Oliver, Angels

Henry Miller, The Wisdom of the Heart, quotes

“Writing, like life itself, is a voyage of discovery.”

"Understanding is not a piercing of the mystery, but an acceptance of it, a living blissfully with it, in it, through and by it."
........

"I believe that one has to pass beyond the sphere and influence of art. Art is only a means to life, to the life more abundant. It is not in itself the life more abundant. It merely points the way, something which is overlooked not only by the public, but very often by the artist himself. In becoming an end it defeats itself. Most artists are defeating life by their very attempt to grapple with it. They have split the egg in two. All art, I firmly believe, will one day disappear. But the artist will remain, and life itself will become not ‘an art,’ but art, i.e., will definitely and for all time usurp the field. In any true sense we are certainly not yet alive."

My dreams, my works must wait till after hell, Gwendolyn Brooks

I hold my honey and I store my bread 
In little jars and cabinets of my will. 
I label clearly, and each latch and lid 
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell. 
I am very hungry. I am incomplete. 
And none can give me any word but Wait, 
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in; 
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt 
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume 
On such legs as are left me, in such heart 
As I can manage, remember to go home, 
My taste will not have turned insensitive 
To honey and bread old purity could love. 

Truth, Gwendolyn Brooks

And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him
After so lengthy a
Session with shade?

Though we have wept for him,
Though we have prayed
All through the night-years—
What if we wake one shimmering morning to
Hear the fierce hammering
Of his firm knuckles
Hard on the door?

Shall we not shudder?—
Shall we not flee
Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter
Of the familiar
Propitious haze?

Sweet is it, sweet is it
To sleep in the coolness
Of snug unawareness.

The dark hangs heavily
Over the eye