Sublime

An inspiration engine for ideas

AllPeopleCollectionsArticlesAudioBooksFilesHighlightsImagesLinksNotesTextTweetsVideosSocial

When he’s home I don’t even remember the deserted panic of these empty afternoons. It’s like I have revolving brains, each one amnesiac of the other.

Jeanine Cummins • The Crooked Branch

How much space for remembering is there in a day? How much should there be? I think about this in my poetry. I don’t want to be a nostalgist. Yet I feed on memory, need it to make poems, the art that is made of the stuff I have: my life and the world around me.

Elizabeth Alexander • The Light of the World: A Memoir

That is all we have, this moment with the world. It will not last, because nothing lasts. Entropy, mortality, extinction: the entire plan of the universe consists of losing, and no matter how much we find along the way, life amounts to a reverse savings account in which we are eventually robbed of everything. Our dreams and plans and jobs and knees... See more

Maria Popova • Losing Love, Finding Love, and Living with the Fragility of It All

Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glint on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you wake in the morning hush, I am the swift, uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft starlight at night. Do not stand at my

Gary Kowalski • Goodbye, Friend: Healing Wisdom for Anyone Who Has Ever Lost a Pet

Winter, a wicked guest, is sitting at home with me; my hands are blue from the handshake of his friendship. I honor this wicked guest, but I like to let him sit alone. I like to run away from him; and if one runs well, one escapes him. With warm feet and warm thoughts I run where the wind stands still, to the sunny nook of my mount of olives. There

Friedrich Nietzsche • The Portable Nietzsche (Portable Library)

As she pushed off, she knew no one would ever see this sandbar again. The elements had created a brief and shifting smile of sand, angled just so. The next tide, the next current would design another sandbar, and another, but never this one. Not the one who caught her. The one who told her a thing or two.

Delia Owens • Where the Crawdads Sing

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

Joe Fassler • Light the Dark: Writers on Creativity, Inspiration, and the Artistic Process

I singled out a bubble, examining the waves of light and color surging across its surface, the iridescent patterns too complex and intricate for humans to process. It was as if the bubble knew it would lead a short life and was frantically broadcasting the myriad dreams and legends of its prodigious memory to the world.

Cixin Liu • The Wandering Earth

Before walking toward the forest’s edge, I offer a silent goodbye to the gray-green waters of the Pacific.