Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way you always used to. Put no difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was, let it be spoken without effort, no trace of a shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because i am out of sight? I am waiting for you, somewhere very near. Just around the corner. All is well.

— Henry Scott Holland 1847 - 1918 / Canon of St Paul’s, London (via reliablememory)

I can tell from the sound that she uses soap

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

— Frank Herbert (via humanflower)

Evening. The moon, Jupiter. Moving mists. A troop of trees fording a river. A dog out hunting. Invisible oxen.

The chateau is dark; but a light in the dining-room shows that people are dining there in accordance with the rules of etiquette.

Slender poplars, heavy elms. As the mist moves, some are drowned while others raise their heads.

You hear the stream running in the very depth of the earth.

Now and then everything is drowned. It is a deluge.

Your mouth filled with dampness, you go home. You are a little scared.

Journal of Jules Renard, October 1904 (via 50watts)