The important parts exist in the silences between the words.
Margaret Atwood, from Cat’s Eye (via violentwavesofemotion)
I mention her name and the old pain returns. Forget her, you say? How can you forget a living human being?
Sholem Aleichem (via larmoyante)
The moon hung over the planet Earth, a dead thing over a dying thing.
John Fowles  (via mirroir)

(Source: amandaonwriting)

But I saw the pain and sadness in everything, and swirled it round my mouth like a fine wine.
Emma Forrest, Your Voice in My Head (via larmoyante)
I can describe it as a pain in the head, some central point, a wound which, somehow, had always been there — something slowly and steadily deforming all hope in me; something that forces me to cling to the past and cling and cling — I cling to the blood, I cling to my own ache, I cling to the past and it gets to a point when I can’t even remember without hurting. I do feed off it, do you understand? It’s not the disease anymore, Anne, it is me, I’m telling you it is me! I blindly follow it because I want to know it and it drives me inward, each time all the most inward, and yet I can only use abstract terms to refer to it and then I get mad at myself. Or I am mad. Probably both. Anne, I am not a loser and I am not weak and I have been battling this ever since I can remember myself. And every single time I try to describe it to someone I love, I only end up sounding like a self-centered asshole who is so damn arrogant in her pain. And then I cannot describe it — I fail, I always fail so forgive me […]
Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)
He fired off his gun six times at the night sky. In the flashes of powdery illumination they could see armies of raindrops, suspended as in a vast motionless amber, for an instant, hesitating as if shocked by the explosion, fifteen billion droplets, fifteen billion tears, fifteen billion ornaments, jewels standing out against a white velvet viewing board. And then, with the light gone, the drops which had waited to have their pictures taken, which had suspended their downward rush, fell upon them, stinging, in an insect cloud of coldness and pain.
The Illustrated Man, Ray Bradbury
16 plays

The west was getting out of gold,
The breath of air had died of cold,
When shoeing home across the white,
I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place
I had to stop and lift my face;
A bird with an angelic gift
Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.
A single leaf was on a bough,
And that was all there was to see
In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on a hill
I judged that such a crystal chill
Was only adding frost to snow
As gilt to gold that wouldn’t show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke
Of what was either cloud or smoke
From north to south across the blue;
A piercing little star was through.


Looking For A Sunset Bird In Winter, Robert Frost

I sometimes write about the 30’s because
they were a good training ground.
people learned to live with adversity
as a common everyday thing
when trouble came
they adjusted and made the next move,
and if there wasn’t one
they often created
one.

and the people who HAD jobs
did them with artistry.
a garage mechanic could FIX your
car.
doctors made house calls.
cab drivers not only knew every
street in town
but they were also versed in
philosophy.
pharmacists would walk up to you
in drugstores and ask you what you
needed.
the ushers in movie houses were more
handsome than the movie
stars.
people made their own clothes,
repaired their own shoes.
almost everybody did things well.

now people in and out of their
professions are totally
inept,
how they even wipe their own asses
is beyond me.
and when adversity arrives they are
dismayed,
they quit,
spit it out,
lay down.
these, coddled to the extremes
are only used to victory or
the soft way.

it’s not their fault, I suppose,
that they didn’t live
through the 30’s
but I’m still hardly tempted to
adore
them.


John Dillinger marches on, Charles Bukowski
9 plays

INEZ: Prove it. Prove it was no dream. It’s what one does, and nothing else, that shows the stuff one’s made of.

GARCIN: I died too soon. I wasn’t allowed time to - to do my deeds.

INEZ: One always dies too soon - or too late. And yet one’s whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are - your life, and nothing else.


Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit
So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people!
No Exit
19 plays
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
9 plays Snowday Nate