The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean

Commonsense has trampled down many a gentle genius whose eyes had delighted in a too early moonbeam of some too early truth; commonsense has back-kicked dirt at the loveliest of queer paintings because a blue tree seemed madness to its well-meaning hoof; commonsense has prompted ugly but strong nations to crush their fair but frail neighbors the moment a gap in history offered a chance that it would have been ridiculous not to exploit.

Vladimir Nabokov, "How to Read, How to Write," 1980

I am the happiest man in the world and here's why: I walk down a street and I see a woman, not tall but well-proportioned, very dark-haired, very neat in her dress, wearing a dark skirt with deep pleats that swing with the rhythm of her rather quick steps; her stockings, of dark color, are carefully, impeccably smooth; her face is not smiling, this woman walks down the street without trying to please, as if she were unconscious of what she represented: a good carnal image of woman, a physical image, more than a sexy image, a sexual image.

Francois Truffaut, "Is Truffaut the Happiest Man on Earth? Yes," 1970

And, yes, you're married and, yes, maybe she is, too, but you are there, both of you, because you want to strip yourselves down to just this moment, this motel, this song, this bottle of wine, this bra strap, these panties over this chair, this light cutting through these curtains, this pillow, these deep sighs.

Anonymous