“Over & over he whispered her name, trochaic as never, never, never, his heart losing its own sense of rhythm.”— Greg Sellers, journal entry, 11 April 2018
“What you could be.”—
Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See
Fog in the mornings, hunger for clarity,Adrienne Rich, Excerpt of What Kind of Times Are These from Later Poems: Selected and New 1971-2012 (via florizels)
coffee and bread with sour plum jam.
Numbness of soul in placid neighborhoods.
Lives ticking on as if.
(via korraled)
“They did not complain; for those who are down do not complain. Nor did they know they were down. Or, knowing it, they did not admit their downness. For to front so final a fact is to face with naked hands a lion; and to admit is to give in. Is to be washed away. To be lost and drowned. To be anonymous; unhelpable; alive no more; but debris, or a straw which the wind takes and sails, or tears, or drifts, or rots, to powder and forgetfulness.
A bone in a world of bones! And they gnawed these bones until it seemed that nothing moved in the world except their teeth.”
-James Stephens, from Etched in Moonlight
The leakage of talk. My mind is dribbling out through my mouth.Susan Sontag, Reborn: Early Diaries (1947-1964)
(Source: stoicremains.us, via stoicremains-deactivated2017102)
We haven’t moved an inch, and everything has changed.John Ashbery, from “More Pleasant Adventures,“ A Wave (Open Road Media, 2014; first published 1984)
(Source: metaphorformetaphor)
How do I define a work of art? It is not an asset in the stock-exchange sense, but a man’s timid attempt to repeat the miracle that the simplest peasant girl is capable of at any time, that of magically producing life out of nothing.Oskar Kokoschka (via huariqueje)
(Source: huariqueje, via korraled)