Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

“The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.”
― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

“I always find it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don't.”
― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil

“I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn’t even recognise me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrow
for I am not a poem.
I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspired
but empty and weary
from drinking too much
at all times
and I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speak
for I don’t speak much
at all
and my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too much
or not at all
and never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am not
a poem
but an elegy
at my best
but unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there’s only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I’m pretty fine with that,
but others are not.”
― Charlotte Eriksson, Another Vagabond Lost To Love: Berlin Stories on Leaving & Arriving

“Despite my incessant desperation, I simply cannot paint the perfect picture within which I would wish to live out my life. And because I cannot, God picked up the brush of love, positioned the canvas of history and painted a manger.”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough

“Use your own paint; colour your world”
― Israelmore Ayivor, 101 Keys To Everyday Passion

“Life may be lived with a veil vainly attempting to hide its truth. The Painted Veil, as Somerset Maugham called it, does fade with time, if not raised earlier. If anything is more pathetic than its former self, it is the faded veil.”
― R. N. Prasher

“He painted until his cursive brushes were only whispers of rawness on the thin ivory. Only the walls and the ravens that watched
knew the boy with the paint-stained palms weaved his art onto his sketchpad on the park bench at lunchtimes, and only the trees
whispered it like a prayer.”
― Grace Curley, The Light that Binds Us

“Going by Dr. Marriott's description, Zoe imagined it to be small and elegant as she peered into dozens of shelves, rummaging through the contents. There were globes and charts and atlases, pocket watches and hand-painted Indian silk, gold-plated cutlery, litter coffers of spice, inlaid combs, silver fasteners, trinket boxes, blown-glass figurines, turn-of-the-century postcards with foreign stamps, and portraits of Victorian authors in elaborate frames. But nowhere did she discover a stone of any kind, with or without runes.”
― Christine Brodien-Jones, The Glass Puzzle

“Freya sensed her mother's damage in the fluid worlds she painted, where beauty and cruelty were hard to distinguish.”
― Margie Orford, The Eye of the Beholder

“...the woman's grief painted the walls and floors an oily black. Her pain had gathered here, among the knick-knacks and clay plates, quilted blankets with frayed edges and tired furniture.”
― Jennifer L. Armentrout, From Blood and Ash

“They slipped inside between the silent stone. Shadows closed around them, like a mother's arms, to protect them. The lap of waves echoed within the cave. I know this place. It was her father's favorite.
On the ceiling and the walls, painted flowers sparkled around them in a magical light show, courtesy of a spell that had been cast thousands of years ago. Marveling, Kiela turned in a slow circle as the petals of ancient roses, lilies, daisies, and flowers twinkled in every color of the rainbow, and she felt, for a brief moment, safe.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop