These are too startling, or too insightful, or too sparkling not to share.
Nothing worth mentioning occurred during their journey to Swan; except the endless pleasant things of the country in summer. There were beech spinneys, wading up steep banks through their own dead leaves; fields all blurred with meadow-sweet and sorrel; brown old women screaming at their goats; acacias in full flower, and willows blown by the wind into white blossom. — Hope Mirrlees, Lud-in-the-Mist
Lombardy has not inaptly been likened to an artichoke, the leaves of which were eaten off in succession by the lords of Piedmont. — Baedeker’s Guide to Northern Italy, 1892
All reality is iconoclastic. The earthly beloved, even in this life, incessantly triumphs over your mere idea of her. And you want her to; you want her with all her resistances, all her faults, all her unexpectedness. That is, in her foursquare and independent reality. — CS Lewis, A Grief Observed
In every important way we are such secrets from each other, and I do believe that there is a separate language in each of us, also a separate aesthetics and a separate jurisprudence. Every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations, but with our own variant notions of what is beautiful and what is acceptable – which, I hasten to add, we generally do not satisfy and by which we struggle to live. — Marilynne Robinson, Gilead