That he had been born an artist—in all ways—a paragon of romantic torment out of the likes of some Brontë novel—has yet to make itselfknown to him. He watches himself unfold.

That he had been born an artist—in all ways—a paragon of romantic torment out of the likes of some Brontë novel—has yet to make itselfknown to him. He watches himself unfold.

Wheston Chancellor Grove
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The day after the darkest hour is always the most beautiful.

Wheston Chancellor Grove
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Above all her voice moved him. He had not known that an accent seduced his emotions. But he’d always been drawn to those with an accent. Be it woman or man. It sounded nicer. A lavender husk. More proper, elegant. His attuned ear seemed to be remembering voices from another life, another time. He could never escape the sense that he’d lost a life dear to him and that life was lived in another language.-from Who Has Known Heights: The Mystique Memoirs of a Melancholic Mind

Wheston Chancellor Grove
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That he had been born an artist—in all ways—a paragon of romantic torment out of the likes of some Brontë novel—has yet to make itselfknown to him. He watches himself unfold.

Wheston Chancellor Grove
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Loneliness is an emaciation of the spirit. -Who Has Known Heights: The Mystique Memoirs of a Melancholic Mind

Wheston Chancellor Grove
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