“The best thing you’ll do in life is choosing a woman who knows how to have fun. Looks will fade. Money will run out. Being with someone who enjoys the little things will be the most rewarding choice you’ll make.”—Gentlemen’s Wisdom (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
“I have so much to say to you.
I want to begin at the beginning, because that is what you deserve.
I want to tell you everything, without leaving out a single detail. But where is the beginning?
And what is everything?”—Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (via seabois)
“Whenever you can’t handle it, whenever it’s too much, just go to the bookstore, go to Barnes n Noble in the comfiest sweater you have and sit between the aisles of books with dozens in your lap and a few pages between each finger with a warm drink next to your hip and just sit there and be and sit there and be and sit there and know that there are hundreds of palm-sized worlds around you right now that you could just crawl yourself into for awhile and it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay.”—Sleepingtigers (via violentwavesofemotion)
Whoever you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.
Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?
The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else—I alone would expect to be your God, sole and exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have to be abandon’d;
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way
”—Whoever You are, Holding Me now in Hand - Walt Whitman
“Language has nothing to do with rational thought. I think that’s why I get so horribly furious and disturbed with rational thought. Language is the the opposite of the way a machine works. Language is poetry, maybe? But not all language is poetry. Nor is all poetry language. By the way, you talk language but that’s beside the point. Or rather, you understand it, you don’t always talk it. It is hard to define. Well, nevermind. I think language is beautiful. I even think insanity is beautiful (surely the root of language), except that it is painful. Language is verbalizing the non verbal. That’s perhaps what makes it so complicated. Holding hands is better than saying “I love you”.”—Anne Sexton, from a letter to Anne Clarke dated 3 July 1964. (via violentwavesofemotion)
“Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.”—Franz Kafka to Milena Jesenska, 1921 (via vladislava)
“Because no one is able to produce a great work of art without experience, nor achieve a worldly position immediately, nor be a great lover at the first attempt; and in the interval between initial failure and subsequent success, in the gap between who we wish one day to be and who we are at present, must come pain, anxiety, envy and humiliation. We suffer because we cannot spontaneously master the ingredients of fulfilment.”i”—Friedrich Nietzsche (via karmic-stain)
“Alas, everything that people say to one another is alike; the ideas they exchange are almost always the same, in their conversation. But inside all those isolated machines, what hidden recesses, what secret compartments! It is an entire world that each one carries within him, an unknown world that is born and dies in silence! What solitudes all these human bodies are!”—Alfred De Musset, Fantasio. (via arrowsofsensation)
“The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way,not understanding what you’ve said at all,or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear.”—Stephen King
“Always to live among words, whether one wants to or not,
always to be alive, full of words about life,
as if words were alive, as if life meant words.”—Ingeborg Bachmann, from “[Always to live among words]”, translated by Peter Filkins (awritersruminations)
ambedo n. a kind of melacholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life
“I cannot promise very much.
I give you the images I know.
Lie still with me and watch.
We laugh and we touch.
I promise you love. Time will not take that away.”—Anne Sexton from “A Curse Against Elegies”. (via violentwavesofemotion)
You know that moment when you’re reading a book and you just have to stop and bite your lip and squeal or sigh or close your eyes and wrinkle your nose and forehead and press the book against your heart and just like sit there and try to soak up the gorgeous literature via osmosis?
“My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery—always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What’s this passion for?”—Virginia Woolf from a letter dated 28 December 1932. (via violentwavesofemotion)
I want to live in a little cottage covered in ivy, with a white wrought iron fence around it, lined with pink rose bushes, and a cobbled pathway leading up to the front door. There will be a room holding hundreds of books where I can drink tea in the mornings and cuddle up in an old armchair when it’s raining.
Is it strange that I can pour my heart out to someone that I just met and like? That I can tell them incidents in my life that make me the person that I am? All my secrets that I don’t tell anyone? Things that are personal…is it just my way of making me feel like I own a part of them because they know that part of me? As if they are personal. Like my newest secret.
“To hell, to hell with balance! I break glasses; I want to burn, even if I break myself. I want to live only for ecstasy. Nothing else affects me. Small doses, moderate loves, all half-shades, leave me cold. I like extravagance, heat. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometer! I’m neurotic, perverted, destructive, fiery, dangerous - lava, inflammable, unrestrained.”—
“I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would.
although everything has happened,
nothing has happened.”—Anne Sexton from “Letter written on a Ferry while crossing Long Island Sound.” (via violentwavesofemotion)
“I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea,
Borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes;
I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me,
I would beat with your heart as it beats, I would follow your soul
as it leads.”—Sarah Teasdale, from “I would live in your love.” (via violentwavesofemotion)