I sort of have a thing for quotes. They’re like book souvenirs you get to carry with you forever, incensing a rush of buried thought years down the line, all hidden and preserved within a few words. Little jewels of knowledge and rumination you can take with you wherever you go.
And yes, in case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I am and always have been a nerd/geek/bibliophile. As a kid, one of my favorite places to be (second only to the ocean) was the library. I’d come home with books stacked so high I couldn’t see in front of me, and was often told I had surpassed the limit and had to put some back.
Did I actually do that? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I gave some to my sister to check out for me.
Lord I loved that place. In what other world do you get to explore the inside of someone else’s mind so fluently, escape the present and and delve so deeply into possibility, ideology and story? I would hide away for hours at a time, lost in some deep dark wood on the other side of the world, or maybe some other world altogether.
Some of my favorites included Steinbeck, L’Engle, Stoker, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Bradbury (or any dystopian novel) and any of the inklings writings. I suppose the collecting of the quotes didn’t start until later on in college when I was in an honors literature/philosophy program based on socratic teaching methods. And once I began, there was no looking back.
The other day I found an old journal in which I kept favorite quotes from hundreds of books I’d read over the years. Even now, as I go back and read through them, my mind cannot help but begin turning down old, familiar roads of contemplation. Like pulling on a thread, the more you tow the deeper you go into a bottomless sea of thought.
And I love it. Although losing myself in my own thoughts have gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion.
Particularly guilty of this when someone is talking to me but there is clearly much more being said in what they are choosing not to say.
But going back to all my old quotes-I’m going to dust them off and put them back to work, utilizing them as a sort of kindling for a bit of writing. They are already starting to wander around in my head anyway, and I cannot stop them now.
First up, Steinbeck.
Sidewalk Chalk 