That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings...– F. Scott Fitzgerald
Whoever you are, holding me now in hand, Without one thing, all will be...– 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...– Anne Sexton, from a letter to Anne Clarke dated 3 July 1964. (via violentwavesofemotion)
I want the part of you that you refuse to give.– Ellen Hopkins, Identical (via theartofgettinghigh)
It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.– Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (via flentes)
Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember,...– Franz Kafka to Milena Jesenska, 1921 (via vladislava)
Because no one is able to produce a great work of art without experience, nor...– Friedrich Nietzsche (via karmic-stain)
Alas, everything that people say to one another is alike; the ideas they...– Alfred De Musset, Fantasio. (via arrowsofsensation)
Lately I’ve taken to counting the world in twos. Five ducks this morning took...– Michael Boiano
He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams– Virginia Woolf
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you...– Stephen King
I wonder if the conversations you’ve never had with someone count, if you’ve...– Jodi Picoult, “Lone Wolf” (via thehiddenabyss)
Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do...– W. S. Merwin, “Separation” (via proustitute)
Always to live among words, whether one wants to or not, always to be alive,...– Ingeborg Bachmann, from “[Always to live among words]”, translated by Peter Filkins (awritersruminations)
absinthemakeyouawhore: Frankie Valli and The...
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...– Anne Sexton from “A Curse Against Elegies”. (via violentwavesofemotion)
Where there is no extravagance, there is no love.
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? That’s my favorite part of reading.
My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery—always buzzing,...– Virginia Woolf from a letter dated 28 December 1932. (via violentwavesofemotion)
upsa-daisy: 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...– - Anaïs Nin. (via hermioneandthegrangers)
I have ripped my hand from your hand as I said I would and I have made it...– 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...– Sarah Teasdale, from “I would live in your love.” (via violentwavesofemotion)
Love is a losing game.: Limerence. →
s-p-o-o-k-i-e: lim·er·ence noun /ˈlimərəns/ limerences, plural The state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically experienced involuntarily and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one’s feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship. A…
When I get pen and paper I am like a water bottle turned upside down. The...– Virginia Woolf, Diary Entry, 13 April 1929. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)