She herself has failed. She is not a writer at all, really; she is merely a gifted eccentric.
From The Hours by Michael Cunningham (via stardriver)
From The Hours (2002) by Stephen Daldry
How have these people been rescued and disappointed? What will happen to them, what’s happening to them now? Nothing much, probably. Errands and trudging work-hours, school for the boy, everybody’s nightly television. Or something else. Who knows? They do, of course, each of them, carry within them a jewel of self, not just the wounds and the hopes but an innerness, what Beethoven might have called the soul, that self-ember we carry, the simple fact of all aliveness, all snarled up with dream and memory but other than a dream and memory, other than the moment (crossing a street, leaving a bakery): that minor infinitude, the private universe in which you have always been and will always be buzzing along on a skateboard or looking for coins in the bottom of your purse or going home with your fussing children. What did Shakespeare say? Our little lives are rounded with a sleep.
From By Nightfall by Michael Cunningham (via elliptical)
I remember one morning getting up at dawn, there was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? And I remember thinking to myself this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more. It never occurred to me it wasn’t the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then.