Chris J. Rice

The world is full of stories, and from time to time they permit themselves to be told.
Old Cherokee Saying

On such sunny, sad mornings I always feel in my bones that there is a chance yet of my not being excluded from Heaven, and that salvation may be granted to me despite the frozen mud and horror in my heart.

—Vladimir Nabokov - Pale Fire  (via feu-pale)

(Source: gwyon, via othernotebooksareavailable)

…anyone who thinks that all fruits ripen at the same time as strawberries, knows nothing of grapes.

—― Paracelsus, Four Treatises of Theophrastus Von Hohenheim Called Paracelsus

Stay impish. Stay curious. Stay crazy. Don’t follow directions. Don’t compromise. Don’t settle. Don’t take anything for granted. Push yourself. Take chances. Ask yourself how you can write the contemporary rather than rewrite the past. Try to fail in ways that interest you.

That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.

—Emily Dickinson (via observando)

(via thetinhouse)

For othernotebooksareavailable and her selfie project


Survival what is it really but living fully in the moment. Never looking back. Never wondering about the people left behind or the life you might have lived. What comes next completely disconnected from whatever came before.

For othernotebooksareavailable and her selfie project

Survival what is it really but living fully in the moment. Never looking back. Never wondering about the people left behind or the life you might have lived. What comes next completely disconnected from whatever came before.

Stories have no point if they don’t absorb our terror.

—Don DeLillo, Mao II
(via mttbll)

(Source: mttbll, via altlitgossip)

Family ties, blood ties, thicker-than-water-connections, clans, your folks, where-you-come-from, what-you-are-made-of: your people are your people, yours and no one else’s, linked up long before you and long after, in a body chain of inevitability, an unavoidable done-deal populated with truck drivers and homemakers, poker players and prostitutes, murderers and more. Hers  were immigrant Scot/Irish and indigenous American Indian, pioneers of mixed blood and mixed meanings; robbers, conjurers and outlaws, with dirt under their nails, full heads of thick hair, and high cheekbones. They were workers, raiders, and runners—women and men with stories she might never fully know, but might live to understand—tales of revenge and loss, of envy and greed and hope—of surviving only on the run.

Family ties, blood ties, thicker-than-water-connections, clans, your folks, where-you-come-from, what-you-are-made-of: your people are your people, yours and no one elses, linked up long before you and long after, in a body chain of inevitability, an unavoidable done-deal populated with truck drivers and homemakers, poker players and prostitutes, murderers and more. Hers were immigrant Scot/Irish and indigenous American Indian, pioneers of mixed blood and mixed meanings; robbers, conjurers and outlaws, with dirt under their nails, full heads of thick hair, and high cheekbones. They were workers, raiders, and runnerswomen and men with stories she might never fully know, but might live to understandtales of revenge and loss, of envy and greed and hopeof surviving only on the run.

The right ending is an open door you can’t see too far out of. It can mean exactly the opposite of what you are thinking.

—―Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter