I've been reading some Oscar Wilde for the first time, and it's really killed my desire to write. He has a very poignant way of writing that sums up my thoughts succinctly. A choice example: I've said for several years now that it's the little things in life that matter the most. To quote the end of chapter one of The Portrait of Mr. W.H.:
"The great events of life often leave one unmoved; they pass out of consciousness, and, when one thinks of them, become unreal. Even the scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow in the same meadow as the poppies of oblivion. We reject the burden of their memory, and have anodynes against them. But the little things, the things of no moment, remain with us. In some tiny ivory cell the brain stores the most delicate, and the most fleeting impressions."
Such a delightfully tasty passage.