My quarrel comes when I turn back to the preface and read this, ‘Vincent van...– H.D., “Vincent van Gogh” (review of Dear Theo, An Autobiography from His Letters, ed. Irving Stone)
Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like...– Anna Kamienska, A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook (translated by Clare Cavanagh)
It was wonderful to sit with her head on my shoulder for hours and feel as I...– Scott talking about Zelda, 1935 (via fitzgeraldquotes)
I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be...– Simone de Beauvoir (via freyjageist)
She was ready to deny the existence of space and time rather than admit that...– Simone de Beauvoir, The Mandarins (via divine-despair)
هو ممكن الواحد يقعد يتخيل انه قابل ناس عمره ما شافها والفكرة تستحوز على كل...– (via samar-mohamed-95)
a world without sound.: my ceiling fan is a trash... →
comakid: my ceiling fan is a trash compacter and i am looking up at it from the perspective of a rotten piece of fruit being force fed to it by a bent fork. i can’t stand the view from my bed so i get up standing exactly where i stood with bare feet in front of you (with bare feet) hours…
On Art, Photography… and the illusiveness of the...
X says the following: “#words_i_hate …. Art and Inspiration” ^ The tweet I read few hours ago generated so much anxiety internally, and I, certainly unable to stifle all my impressions into 140 characters, decide to write this post. Directly, another surge of anxiety arises in attempting to explain a notion that is vague to many. As always, my impaired capacities of discourse fail me;...
Maybe I’m so infatuated with what other people say (poets, writers, dead or alive) because I cannot articulate my own thoughts. So I read peoples’ thoughts, and project them into my own life…And I fabricate a life parallel to my own. Just as if i were the protagonist in that story. As if I were Medusa. Or I were the daffodils. I am deeply moved by words. But I don’t...
We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a...– William Somerset Maugham (via 18991th)