"When loneliness began to drive him into situations like this, he often returned to a settlement and joined a hunting party. A drunken, university hysteria would take hold of them all, out on night-rampages where they’d be presently firing at anything, treetops, clouds, leather demon bats screaming up beyond hearing. Tradewinds moving up-slope to chill their nights’ sweating, sky lit half crimson by a volcano, rumblings under their feet as deep as the bats’ voices were high, all these men were caught in the spectrum between, trapped among frequencies of their own voices and words."
— Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (via robcam-wfu)
"The scene is memory, and therefore nonrealistic. Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart."
— Tennessee Williams, “The Glass Menagerie” (via storm-clouds-in-color)
"When I watered the flowers he stood, watching me, and watched me arrange them. My gravity, he said. I was so grave, attending to the flowers…"
— Harold Pinter, Landscape (via robcam-wfu)
"And yet it is not unpleasant, before setting to work, to steep oneself again in this slow and massive world, where all things move with the ponderous sullenness of oxen, patiently through the immemorial ways, and where of course no investigation would be possible."
— Samuel Beckett, Molloy (via robcam-wfu)
"Genius, all over the world, stands hand in hand, and one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round."
— Herman Melville (via swallowtheredpill)
"they’ll go back to dividing everything up among the priests, the gringos and the rich, and nothing for the poor, naturally, because they’ve always been so fucked up that the day shit is worth money, poor people will be born without an asshole, you’ll see,"
— Gabriel Garcia Marquez, The Autumn of the Patriarch (via hipybohemiannerd)
"Then she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade out and all her smiles and tears to vanish in an ecstasy of eternal seconds."
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Ice Palace (via doublehelixnucleotide)
"Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any misery, any depression, since after all you don’t know what work these conditions are doing inside you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. If there is anything unhealthy in your reactions, just bear in mind that sickness is the means by which an organism frees itself from what is alien; so one must simply help it to be sick, to have its whole sickness and to break out with it, since that is the way it gets better."
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (via favouritelittlelines)
"Replication. Of days, of stars.
A ledge to lean over gauges the distance
to certain death. I have sat
naked to the passing clouds
as they altered the freckles on my skin."
— From Different Uses for Window by Arlene Ang (via hush-syrup)
"She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow"
— Robert Graves (via sittingonparkbenches)
"To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession"
— Robert Graves (via sittingonparkbenches)
“I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”
— Passage Series #116: Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam (via thoughtsofalltrades)
"The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise; like diseases that are treated superficially and foolishly, they just withdraw and after a short interval break out again all the more terribly; and gather inside us and are life, are life that is unlived, rejected, lost, life that we can die of."
— Rainer Maria Rilke,Letters to a Young Poet (via sad-plath)
(Source: sad-plath, via sad-plath)
"I have a knocking woodpecker in my heart and I think I have
One for love one for poetry and one for acting out my insane self
Not insane but boring but perpendicular but untrue but true
The three rarely sing together"
— From Alive for an Instant by Kenneth Koch (via hush-syrup)
"I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?"
— from A Writer’s Diary by Virginia Woolf (via shakespearewasaunicorn)