My life has a superb cast, but I can't figure out the plot.

To days of Inspiration,
playing' hooky,
making something out of nothing.
The need to express,
to communicate.
To going against the grain,
going insane,
going mad.
To loving tension,
no pension,
to more then one dimension,
to straving for attention,
hating convention,
hating pertension.
No to mention, of course, hating dear old Mom and Dad.

- La Vie Boheme, Rent.

They're literary romantics; they'll fuck like Wilde and die like Hemingway.

In western lands beneath the Sun
the flowers may rise in Spring,
the trees may bud, the waters run,
the merry finches sing.
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night
and swaying beeches bear
the Elven-stars as jewels white
amid their branching hair.
Though here at journey's end I lie
in darkness buried deep,
beyond all towers strong and high,
beyond all mountains steep,
above all shadows rides the Sun
and Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
nor bid the Stars farewell.

- Sam's song in the Tower of Cirith Ungol
Lord of the Rings: Return of the King

Charlie: So, first plane crash?
Claire: What gave it away?
Charlie: You can always spot the newbies.

Wendy was pained to find that the past year was but as yesterday to Peter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting for her. But he as exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring cleaning in the little house on the treetops.
Next year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock because the old one simply would not meet; but he never came.
'Perhaps he is ill.' Michael said.
'You know he is never ill.'
Michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver, 'Perhaps there is no such person, Wendy!' and then Wendy would have cried if Michael had not been crying.

- Peter Pan, When Wendy Grew Up, J. M. Barrie

"I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?" - John Lennon

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
all pray in their distress
and to these virtues of delight
return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
is God our Father dear;
and Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
is man, His child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,
and Love a human form divine,
and Peace the human dress.

Then every man, of every claim
that prays in his distress
prays to the human form divine:
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,
In heathan, Turk, or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
there God is dwelling, too.

- The Divine Image, William Blake

"If we, citizens, do not support our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination on the altar of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing and having worthless dreams." - Yann Martel

'Hang on a moment!' said Ron sharply. 'We've forgotton someone!'
'Who?' asked Hermione.
'The house-elves, they'll all be down in the kitchens, won't they?'
'You mean we ought to get them fighting?' asked Harry.
'No,' said Ron seriously, 'I mean we should tell them to get out. We don't want any more Dobby's, do we? We can't order them to die for us - '
There was a clatter as the Basilisk fangs cascaded out of Hermione's arms. Running a Ron, she flung them around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was holding and responded with such enthusiasm that he lifted Hermione off her feet.
'Is this the moment?' Harry asked weakly, and when nothing happened except that Ron and Hermione gripped each other still more firmly and swayed on the spot, he raised his voice. 'OI! There's a war going on here!'
Ron and Hermione broke apart, their arms still around each other.
'I know, mate,' said Ron, who looked as though he had recently been hit on the back of the head with a Bludger, 'so it's now or never, isn't it?'

- Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, The Battle of Hogwarts, JK Rowling

When I get a little money, I buy books. And if any is left I buy food and clothes.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son ?
And what did you hear, my darling young one ?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin'
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin'
I heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin'
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin'
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darling young one ?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

- A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall, Bob Dylan

"If you stumble about believability, what are you living for? Love is hard to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problem with hard to believe?" - Yann Martel

Oh, the torment bred in race,
the grinding scream of death
and the stroke that hits the wein,
the haemorrhage non can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.

But thre is a cure in the house
and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife. We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground -
answer the call, send help.
Bless the children, give them triumph now.

- The Liberation Bearers, Aeschylus

And even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah.

And sometimes when you're on,
You're really fuckin' on
And your friends, they sing along
And they love you.
But the lows are so extreme
That the good seems fuckin' cheap
And it teases you for weeks in it's absence.
But you'll fight and you'll make it through,
You'll fake it if you have to
And you'll show up for work with a smile.
You'll be better
And you'll be smater
And more grown up
And a better daughter
Or son
And a real good friend.
You'll be awake,
You'll be alert,
You'll be positive though it hurts
And you'll laugh and embrace
All your friends.
You'll be a real good listener,
You'll be honest,
You'll be brave,
You'll be handsom and you'll be beautiful.
You'll be happy.

- A Better Son/Daughter, Rilo Kiley

All books are either dreams or swords.

Je soulevai le seau jusqu'à ses lèvres. Il but, les yeux fermés. C'était doux comme une fête. Cette eau était bien autre chose qu'un aliment. Elle était née de la marche sous les étoiles, du chant de la poulie, de l'effort de mes bras. Elle était bonne pour le cœur, comme un cadeau. Lorsque j'étais petit garçon, la lumière de l'arbre de Noël, la musique de la messe de minuit, la douceur des sourires faisaient ainsi tout le rayonnement du cadeau de Noël que je recevais.
- Les hommes de chez toi, dit le petit prince, cultivent cinq mille roses dans un même jardin... et ils n'y trouvent pas ce qu'ils cherchent.
- Ils ne le trouvent pas, répondis-je...
- Et cependant ce qu'ils cherchent pourrait être trouvé dans une seule rose ou un peu d'eau...
- Bien sûr, répondis-je.
Et le petit prince ajouta:
- Mais les yeux sont aveugles. Il faut chercher avec le cœur

- Le Petit Prince, Ch. 25, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Living is easy with eyes closed.

They’re selling postcards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
“It takes one to know one,” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning
“You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friend
You better leave”
And the only sound that’s left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortune-telling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she’s ’neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
“Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on pennywhistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains
They’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They’re spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls
“Get Outa Here If You Don’t Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row”

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody’s shouting
“Which Side Are You On?”
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the doorknob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters, no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

- Desolation Row, Bob Dylan

Imagination and fiction make up more than three quarters of our real life.

In our times, from the highest class of society down to the lowest every one lives as under the eye of a hostile and dreaded censorship. Not only in what concerns others, but in what concerns only themselves, the individual, or the family, do not ask themselves--what do I prefer? or, what would suit my character and disposition? or, what would allow the best and highest in me to have fair play, and enable it to grow and thrive? They ask themselves, what is suitable to my position? what is usually done by persons of my station and pecuniary circumstances? or (worse still) what is usually done by persons of a station and circumstances superior to mine? I do not mean that they choose what is customary, in preference to what suits their own inclination. It does not occur to them to have any inclination, except for what is customary. Thus the mind itself is bowed to the yoke: even in what people do for pleasure, conformity is the first thing thought of; they like in crowds; they exercise choice only among things commonly done: peculiarity of taste, eccentricity of conduct, are shunned equally with crimes: until by dint of not following their own nature, they have no nature to follow: their human capacities are withered and starved: they become incapable of any strong wishes or native pleasures, and are generally without either opinions or feelings of home growth, or properly their own. Now is this, or is it not, the desirable condition of human nature?

- On Liberty, John Stuart Mill

To being an us for once, instead of a them.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

- from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T. S. Elliot.

"I would like to be carried everywhere by magical creatures… Gryffins and like Unicorns. The Cyclops would be my bodyguard, like a big hulking guy and he’d wink at you if you liked it. Welcome to my head!" -Darren Criss

Not All Those Who Wander (Are Lost) - a Lost fanfiction.
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