The Floating Library

The Library is Open…

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← My Pilot days are closing in

Beauty inexpressible, peace beyond understanding . . . →

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In all the edifice of thought, I have found no category on which to rest my head. . . .

- E. M. Cioran

Top Entries

Poems from the Book of Hours
On Rigor in Science :: J. L. Borges
Harold Bloom's Recommended Poems
If only there were stillness, full, complete.
What will you do, God, when I die?
Granita :: Umberto Eco
I read it in your word, and learn it from
Dreamtigers
Now the hour bows down, it touches me, throbs
Telescope :: Louise Glück

'Self-knowledge'? A contradiction in terms.

- E. M. Cioran

. . . feast on ancient books to the lazy enchanting lap of wavelets in the Floating Library, in memoriam of Dr. Sineokov, who had drowned at just that spot in the city river. The grinding of chains, the little gallery with its orange-colored lamp shades, the plash, the water's smooth surface oiled by the moon, and, in the distance, lights flickering past in the black web of a lofty bridge . . .

- Vladimir Nabokov

Raison d’être

There they are, in my own handwriting: the words that have been my prayer, evening after evening. I copied them from the books I found them in, so that they would be right in front of me, issued from my hand as if they were my own words. And now I want to write them again, kneeling here before my tablet I want to write them; for in this way I can have them with me longer than when I read them, and every word will last and have time to echo and fade away.

- R. M. Rilke

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