The Purdzilla Show

  Photo by Ivana Cajina on Unsplash

Photo by Jessica Arends on Unsplash To be mature you have to realize what you value most. It is extraordinary to discover that comparatively few people reach this level of maturity. They seem never to have paused to consider what has value for them. They spend great effort and sometimes make great sacrifices for values that, fundamentally, meet no real needs of their own. Perhaps they have imbibed the values of their particular profession or job, of their community or their neighbors, of their parents or family. Not to arrive at a clear understanding of one’s own values is a tragic waste. You have missed the whole point of what life is for. Eleanor Roosevelt

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash "And time," she would tell Dr. Wiss. "Well, you know about time. How slow it is when you're little and how it speeds up faster and faster once you're grown. Well, now it's just a blur. I can't keep track of it anymore! But it's like time is sort of...balanced. We're young for such a small fraction of our lives, and yet our youth seems to stretch on forever. Then we're old for years and years, but time flies by fastest then. So it all comes out equal in the end, don't you see." Anne Tyler (in A Spool Of Blue Thread )

I stopped for a lttle rest, to draw breath. I looked over  to the north of the city, where the ghetto had been, where half a million Jews had been murdered - there was nothing left of it. The Germans had flattened even the walls of the burnt-out buildings. Tomorrow I must begin a new life. How could I do it with nothing but death behind me? What vital energy could I draw from death? I went on my way. A stormy wind rattled the scrap-iron in the ruins, whistling and howling through the charred cavities of the windows. Twilight came on. Snow fell from the darkening, leaden sky. Wladyslaw Szpilman (In The Pianist )

Photo by Becca Tapert on Unsplash How many people in the not too distance future will be left who understand what bookshops and booksellers used to mean to people like me? The difference it made to a town or city if there were such places one could go into in the hope of some revelation? Who will recall the tranquil manner in which one penetrated those warrens redolent of paper and print? The way of tilting the head to decipher one title after another, scan the names of authors familiar or unknown, glean clues from the pale covers? "The only true reader is the thoughtful reader." Who will recall the way of placing the index finger at the top of the spine to tip the volume backwards, then drawing it out, opening it, leafing through it, reading the blurb. Standing amid the riffle of pages, encountering a few words that appear to be addressed directly to oneself. The unhoped-for reassurance in black and white. An all-embracing, intimate acquaintance. Soundless music. Pierre Pé...

The views were splendid. The road snailed steadily upwards, following the curves of the mountain. The late spring light softened the tall glasses and the budding leaves on the trees. Everything dissolved into swathes of golden vapour and hazy shadows tinged with blue.  Pierre Péju (in The Girl From The Chartreuse )